From Afar
by Lizbit
Summary: COMPLETE - Boromir, mortally wounded in his elven boat, washes up on the coast of Maine. None could be more surprised than Morgan, a 21st century girl who doesn't believe a word he says. Chaos ensues when she ships him off to the insane asylum. **AU**
1. Prologue

**FROM AFAR**

**Author's Note**

It is hard to believe that I finished "A Tale of Mirkwood" three years ago, and barely written anything since, but it's true. A year of planning a wedding took its toll, and then two years of fixing up our fixer-upper century home. Now, the wedding cake has long ago been eaten, the house is done, and I continue to miss writing. I've been "on again/off again" writing my novel, but have hit a brick wall, and now need time away from it. I thought, "Why not write another fanfic?" So, here it is! This was an idea that I had when I was finishing "ATOM", so I thought, why not put the idea to cyberspace. For you Legolas lovers, I apologize, as he will not be in this one, as I've decided to focus instead on Boromir, who I think is generally misunderstood. So, I hope you enjoy it! As ever, my thoughts are my own. I have borrowed Boromir only, and the rest is of my own creation. Of this page ONLY have I borrowed text from Tolkien and Shakespeare (to set the stage, as it were). Enjoy!

**Prologue**

'A mile, maybe, from Parth Galen in a little glade not far from the lake he found Boromir. He was sitting with his back to a great tree, as if he was resting. But Aragorn saw that he was pierced with many black-feathered arrows; his sword was still in hand, but it was broken near the hilt; his horn cloven in two was at his side. Many Orcs lay slain, piled all about him and at his feet.

Aragorn knelt beside him. Boromir opened his eyes and strove to speak. At last slow words came. "I tried to take the Ring from Frodo," he said. "I am sorry. I have paid." His glance strayed to his fallen enemies; twenty at least lay there. "They have gone: the Halflings: the Orcs have taken them. I think they are not dead. Orcs bound them." He paused and his eyes closed wearily. After a moment he spoke again.

"Farewell, Aragorn! Go to Minas Tirith and save my people! I have failed!"

"No!" said Aragorn, taking his hand and kissing his brow. "You have conquered. Few have gained such a victory. Be at peace! Minas Tirith shall not fall!"

Boromir smiled.

"Which way did they go? Was Frodo with them?"

But Boromir did not speak again.

Now they laid Boromir in the middle of the boat that was to bear him away. The grey hood and elven-cloak they folded and placed beneath his head. They combed his long dark hair and arrayed it upon his shoulders. The golden belt of Lórien gleamed about his waist. His helm they set beside him, and across his lap they laid the cloven horn and the hilts and shards of his sword; beneath his feet they put the swords of his enemies. Then fastening the prow to the stern of the other boat, they drew him out into the water. They rowed sadly along the shore, and turning into the swift-running channel they passed the green sword of Parth Galen. The steep sides of Tol Brandir were glowing: it was now mid-afternoon. As they went south the fume of Rauros rose and shimmered before them, a haze of gold. The rush and thunder of the falls shook the windless air.

Sorrowfully, they cast loose the funeral boat: there Boromir lay, restful, gliding upon the bosom of the flowing water. The stream took him while they held their own boat back with their paddles. He floated by them, and slowly his boat departed, waning to a dark spot against the golden light; and then suddenly it vanished. Rauros roared on unchanging. The river had taken Boromir son of Denethor, and he was not seen again in Minas Tirith, standing as he used to stand upon the White Tower in the morning. But in Gondor in after days it long was said that the elven-boat rode the falls and the foaming pool, and bore him down through Osgiliath, and past the many mouths of Anduin, out into the Great Sea at night under the stars.'

When presently through all thy veins shall run

A cold and drowsy humour, for no pulse

Shall keep his native progress, but surcease:

No warmth, no breath, shall testify thou livest;

The roses in thy lips and cheeks shall fade

To paly ashes, thy eyes' windows fall,

Like death, when he shuts up the day of life;

Each part, deprived of supple government,

Shall, stiff and stark and cold, appear like death:

And in this borrow'd likeness of shrunk death

Thou shalt continue two and forty hours,

And then awake as from a pleasant sleep.'

--Excerpts from "The Two Towers" and "Romeo and Juliet"


	2. Winter's Rages

**Chapter One**

"**Winter's Rages"**

Night had fallen fast and the winter's rages swept over the fields casting a heavy layer of snow over earth, tree, and house alike. A lone house sat amidst sloping white fields, a soft glow emanating from within. Jack's frosty fingers had painted wonderful scrolling etchings across its windows, but inside a cozy sight could be seen. A young woman lay curled up on the sofa under a blanket, her eyes dashing between the flickers of her wood fire and the corny romance novel held in hand. A large black lab lay stretched out on a worn braided rug, and a very fat tabby cat sat at the window, its eyes attentively watching the snow blow past.

The storm proved worse than expected and had knocked out both the power and the phone lines. There's never anything on TV anyway, she thought to herself, tucking her toes under a soft cushion. On such a cold, blistery night, she was thankful for her blanket and wood fire.

The dog, Moglie, suddenly cocked his head, ears straining. A whine turned into a bark, and he ran to the window, causing the cat to fly out of the room. "Moglie, shhhh!" the woman, Morgan, commanded. The dog's incessant barking continued until Morgan raised her head high enough to see beyond her windowsill. The wind blew snow about in a torrent of fury, but no animal or car appeared through the gusts of white. Moglie pawed at the door urgently, and Morgan knew full well the consequences if he did not go outside. Jumping up and getting dressed for the storm outdoors, she opened the door and, within a flash, Moglie bounded outside, plunging and leaping over the high mounds of snow. Shuffling her feet as the snow crunched underfoot, Morgan watched as her breath made quick cloud bursts - it was well below zero. Seeing that Moglie's business had been accomplished, she called him to her, whistling and slapping her thigh. Moglie, however, stood perfect still, head cocked to the side, listening intently for some unknown, distant sound.

"Moglie, come!" Morgan commanded, hoping that her voice would snap him out of his trance. It failed. He let out a low growl, and then bolted full speed into the woods beyond the house.

"Hey, Moglie!" Morgan shouted, swearing out loud. She was strongly tempted to just turn and head back to her fire and book, but on such a cold night, could not leave her dog outside to roam. Cursing both her decision and her dog, she made her way through the deep snow to the edge of the forest. The dense evergreens meant less snow, so walking became easier. Calling incessantly for her dog, she was reluctant to wander too far into the dark wilderness.

"Moglie!" she shouted again, anxious for his return. Suddenly, she saw him step out from behind a tree and look at her. She heaved a sigh of relief, and said, "You bad boy, now you COME!". Moglie whined, and took a few steps forward, only to turn back again. Exasperated, she said, "Moglie, COME HERE!"

This command was met with a quick bark, and Moglie bounding off farther into the forest. Shouting and cursing, Morgan hurried after him, simply wishing she had used his leash. She trudged through the snow, following his tracks as they lead down to the Royal River. There stood Moglie, muzzle white with snow, standing beside a grey boat lodged in the frozen ice.

Morgan cautiously stepped up to the boat; Moglie, himself, peering inside, whining. She didn't know why, but a fear came over Morgan as to what she'd find. Gazing over its stern, she was startled to see the body of a man, still and dead-looking, laying inside. Throwing her initial fear aside, the nurse in her sprang to life, and she threw herself alongside him, checking his vital signs. He appeared dead, but she was thrilled to find a weak pulse, and shallow breathing. It was too dark to see the cause of his injury. She mercilessly grabbed him by the shoulder, violently shaking him saying, "Hello! Who are you? Can you hear me? Hello?"

No reply was given, save a weak moan. Morgan knew time and weather were against her. She knew full well that the roads were impassable; she was without power and telephones as of a half an hour ago. There's no way a helicopter or ambulance could get through even if she could call them. Her closest neighbor was two miles off, and how was she ever to move the dying man back to her house? A few terrifying moments passed, her thoughts depressingly dire. Not willing to stand by and let the stranger die, she took off and ran back toward her house. Precious seconds were lost checking the phone - still no dial tone. "What do I do?!" her mind raced. He looked far too heavy for her to carry. Her mind jumped to the toboggan in the garage, a treasured childhood gift from long ago. Throwing open the garage door, she climbed up the step ladder, and reached high for the long, red, wooden sled, dusty with time and neglect. Throwing it onto the snow, she pulled it along with her as a child would, running with all her might and speed back to the boat and the stranger.

Moglie stood waiting and barked at her sudden arrival. Checking the man's vitals again, Morgan breathed a small sigh of relief - he was still breathing. Grabbing him from under his arms, she pulled with all her might. The boat stood lodged in ice, and did not even rock as she tugged awkwardly, trying to pull him out. He moaned painfully, but didn't wake. "Sorry," she said feelingly, knowing she must be hurting him dreadfully. He lay upon the snow, and a blackness seeped into it. At first she wondered what it was, but then realization hit. It was his blood, ebony with the night, flowing heavily enough to stain the snow an inky hue. Knowing no time to be lost, she heaved him onto her little toboggan, wrapping the woven cord under his arms.

My, was he heavy! She pulled with all her strength but it was slow moving. His legs dragged along, too lengthy for the child's sled. Maneuvering around the trees proved especially difficult, but she did her best to move as quickly as she could. They began to edge out of the trees, and the soft glow from the livingroom window could at last be seen. Only a few more hundred yards, and her front door was within reach!

She finally swung it open, and Moglie ran in, shaking off a shower of snow. She pulled her charge right into the foyer and slid it easily along the smooth tile. Tugging it right into the living room, the fire was her only source of heat and means of light. She threw off her coat, grabbed her first aid kit, and began to do what she did best.

Years of medical school and hospital experience had prepared her for this moment, and her nimble hands and steady mind knew what to do. It was at this moment she wished that she had continued on to become a full fledged doctor, but knew nothing could be done about it at that moment. Stripping away his shirt, five bloodied holes marked his flesh. What shocked and mystified her were his wounds. At first what appeared to be bullets, proved not to be. Using a pair of needle nose pliers, she dug out an arrowhead, crude and black, its wooden end soaked with the man's blood.

If he was to ever wake, this would be the moment. She held the bottle of rubbing alcohol in one hand, and restrained his head firmly down with the other. Taking a deep breath, she poured the clear contents on top of his wounds. His eyes opened, and his voice rang clear. He screamed with torturous pain, and curled up in agony. She held him down with as much force as she could muster, again his eyes closed, and he lay still. He did not die, but became unconscious. He was simply too weak.

All wounds now clean and bandaged, the man lay beside the flickering fire, asleep in a painless dream. Morgan sat on her sofa, eyeing the stranger with a wonder and fear. His clothes were beyond bewildering. They were made of leather and, what appeared to be, antique homespun fabrics, while a gold belt hung from his waist. Assuring herself that he must have come from a Renaissance Fair, she tried to make sense of what seemed senseless. He had no winter coat with him, and he was found in a boat on the edge of a very frozen river. He had been shot with nearly half a dozen arrows, and left to die. How in the world did he get there?

She tried the phone again - still no dial tone. It was getting really annoying hearing nothing on the other end of the line. She stood in the living room doorway watching the stranger for a long time. He had almost died, she told herself. He _would_ have died. This can't be a trick. "What the hell is going on?" she said aloud, glancing at the bloody arrowheads. Tenderly placing a pillow underneath his head she threw a thick, wool blanket over his bruised and bandaged body. Grabbing her flashlight and coat, she pulled on her boots and again stepped outside. Moglie was at her side in a flash, unwilling to be left behind. She conceded, and again stepped out into the blustery cold with her dog at foot.

She just had to investigate - had to see with more light the scene in which she had found the stranger. Retracing her steps, she easily found the path back to the boat. It lay still in the ice, silent and mysterious. It was dove grey and exquisitely carved. She had never seen a boat like it before! The only boats she had seen along the river were canoes, and old aluminum dories. A pool of frozen blood stained the snow. How red it seemed against the paleness of the snow.

She peered into the boat, hoping to find some kind of I.D., but saw such a strange sight! Weapons lay along the bottom of the boat! Stained swords, black and artless, littered the bottom, along with another broken sword hilt. A large piece of green cloth, neatly folded lay at the stern. Thinking them to be significant, she wrapped up what she could carry in the green cloth and, again, headed off for home and warmth.

It was difficult opening the door with arms full of swords and such. Moglie pawed at it, attempting to help. Finally, she managed to free a few fingers and turned the knob just enough to revolve the bolt. Taking this opportunity, Moglie nudged the door open with his broad head. Arms still filled with findings, she poked her face into the living room, but to her horror, no stranger lay upon the braided rug. Her breath caught suddenly in her throat, and a terrifying fear came over her. The house sat quiet and dark, no sound could her strained ears perceive. A sword slipped from her grasp causing a thunderous clang as it cracked a tile at her feet. She gasped in shock, and two strong hands grabbed her from behind. The stranger towered over her, his feverish brow and petrified eyes glistening in the blazing firelight.

"Who are you?" he demanded, spinning her about, so as to meet her gaze. "What villainy is this that you have brought me here?"

Morgan blinked at him, struggling for words and courage. However, she didn't have a chance to answer him as his eyes dimmed and then shut, and he fell to the floor in a heavy heap. Morgan backed away, and held a heavy sword awkwardly in her right hand, but the stranger did not move again. She breathed a brave sigh, and soundlessly setting the weapons down, tiptoed out of the room in search of her rope.

* * *

**_A/N: Please review!_**


	3. Madhouse

**Chapter Two**

"**Madhouse"**

When Boromir awoke, it was with a tumultuous pain in his chest. He felt its searing sting long before opening his eyes, and upon doing so, came to the realization that his hands were tightly bound to the sides of his bed. His eyes flew wildly around the room, and its foreignness frightened him. The walls were painted grey blue, and the ceiling white. A strange mirror and dresser of foreign craftsmanship stood against the wall. He could just make out a glimpse of his reflection, and he gasped at the sight of himself. Bloody and bandaged, pale and drawn was his body and face. Pulling his arms violently to free them, he had little success. Wondering what evil was at work to ensnare him thus, he shouted out in defiance, for no coward was he! "Why do you bind my hands, and then hide?! You have every right to fear me! My will is ironclad, and will not yield to threats or torture! Face me, you cur, for you face a fearless man of Gondor!"

Morgan had been standing in the hall at the time of his outburst, a cup of warm soup in hand, and she jumped at the sound of his thunderous voice. It was filled with venom and fury, and she shook at the thought of confronting such a man, crazy as he was. Where in the hell was Gondor?

She had tried the phones all night and morning, but the storm being as brutal as it was, she was not surprised that the phones were still out of order. The roads were not yet cleared, as it was still snowing, though not as hard as the previous day. As she was not scheduled to work for another three days, no one would miss her. She was fearfully stuck with a lunatic.

The stranger, meanwhile, had been frantically jerking at his confines, and groaned in pain. Morgan was creeping up, just to catch a glimpse, when the floorboard creaked neath her foot, giving her away.

Boromir was quick to hear it, and shouted, "I know you are there, Traitor! Tell me, why do you flee? You have a right to fear me, for when I am free, and will slit your savage throat!!!"

Morgan could not help but tremble. She sure knows how to find madmen, if her last boyfriend was any example. Rid of one, only to be replaced with another, more loony than the last. Why me? she wondered.

The knots are tight, she told herself reassuringly. The sailing knots her father had long ago taught her proved useful time and time again, this being a great example. She knew they weren't going to come loose any time soon. Believing in her abilities, she bravely peered around the doorframe, peeking into the guest bedroom.

The stranger lay on the bed, blankets askew, but hands still tightly fastened. He panted as he lay, adrenaline pumping through his veins. He sensed her presence, and turned quickly. Panicked, Morgan popped back quickly for protection.

"Wait! Come back! Please..." he begged. His voice seemed softer now and less murderous. Gathering her strength once more, she peeked her head inside the room, showing her face to the stranger in the bed.

He seemed shocked to see her, and for a moment, he couldn't speak. "Who are you?" he asked at last, his brow wrinkled in confusion.

"Morgan," she replied in a half whisper. "Who are you?"

"Boromir son of Denethor, of the House of Húrin," he replied, a note of pride in his voice.

Great, thought Morgan. Freaking crackpot. He's going to kill me - I know it. She decided instead to say, "Cool! Uh, where is Gondor, by the way?"

Boromir gazed at her incredulously. "As a woman of the westfold, I would have thought you knew of Gondor. But Lady Morgan, tell me, why do you bind my hands, for I am no enemy of yours, and would not harm you."

"Well, B..." Morgan stopped short. What was the fruitcake's name again?

"Boromir," he said, intuitively.

"Yeah - Boromir. Well, Boromir, not two minutes ago you were threatening to slit my...what was the word you used? Savage throat?"

"You cannot live so concealed as to be unwise of such dark times as these. I find myself bound and in unfamiliar territory. Pray, where am I, exactly?"

"About a 40 minute drive outside of Portland."

"Portland?" he repeated, blinking.

"Yeah, Portland...Maine. Never heard of it?"

"Nay, I have not." Boromir closed his eyes tightly; how his head ached. "Pray, can you fetch your husband to me. I require a man's council."

Ooh, that offended Morgan beyond belief! However, it also emboldened her, and she stepped defiantly into the guest bedroom, lukewarm soup still in hand. "I'm not married, not that it's any of your business."

"Well, your father will then suffice," Boromir offered, witless to the offence that he was causing.

"My father is dead, and I live alone," she said haughtily, and daringly stepped closer, and sat upon the bed, preparing to force-feed him, if only to shut him up.

"You live alone?!" he cried incredulously, gulping down a spoonful. "A woman of your age? Who is to take care of you if you have no man to..."

Boromir was cut short by Morgan shoving another mouthful of chicken broth into his big, fat mouth. "Come on! What is this, 1956?! Look, this is how it's going to be. Your injuries are bad. I don't think they passed through your rib cage and into any organs, or else you'd be dead by now. I did my best suturing you back up, but if you excite yourself, you're just going to open yourself up again. You need to rest, and you're certainly not going to the hospital until the road's clear, so until then, you'll just have to relax up in bed. I'm sorry it's so cold, I'll just try to keep you bundled up, but I don't trust you, so you can't come out by the fire, and that's that." With that, she fed him the last of the soup, and began to straighten his blankets, tucking carefully to keep the warmth in.

"What is blocking the road, pray? Perhaps I could be of assistance..."

"Unless you've got a snowplow hidden somewhere that I don't know about, I don't think you'd be of much use, considering you almost died last night."

"Far from my not appreciating your care, I do. You are most generous, but could you not just release my bindings? I swear I would never harm you."

"Your assurances are touching, but I really don't want to be raped and murdered, thank you. After all, I found you half-dead in the woods, shot up with arrows, (how weird is that), and you're obviously batty. Let you out? Um...no. How did you get those injuries, by the way?"

"In battle."

"In battle..." Morgan repeated dubiously.

"Aye, battling several scores of Orcs." Boromir's face was astounded at her blatant distrust. "And I know not what you mean by 'batty', but for you to think that I, a man of honour, a man of Gondor, a son of the Steward of Gondor, would violate a helpless woman, I am appalled!"

"Helpless? I'll have you know that I have a Tazer, thank you! And anyway, it's not good for you to get all worked up about this right now; you need to sleep. I'll check on you in a few hours, and hopefully by then, the phones will be back up, alright?"

Boromir sensed both her determination and suspicion, and so relented, knowing a further fight would prove useless. Morgan drew the window curtains closed, blocking out much of the light of day. Boromir's head felt suddenly heavy and drowsy, and he yielded to her will and slept.

Hours passed, and Boromir's dreams fretted and confused him. He was in the forest, and battle ensued. The hobbits were in danger, and he defeated foe after filthy foe, but suddenly, his chest ached. An arrow had struck its target. He woke up in a sweat, mind flustered and dizzy with dreams. A great weight was on his chest, and it ached. He opened his eyes to see another pair of eyes staring back into his. They were small and yellow. A large brown and black tabby cat sat there, eyeing this newcomer with question. It leaned in sniffing his face; it's cold nose brushed his skin.

"Oh, pray go and leave me," Boromir begged the cat, his wounds now screaming out for reprieve.

Morgan heard her patient's voice, and so came to investigate. "Penny!" she exclaimed upon seeing her cat. Sensing herself in trouble, Penny sprang from her perch, agilely landing on the floor, quickly making her escape. Boromir cringed as his throbbing chest was used as a springboard, and gritted his teeth in pain.

"Bad cat..." Morgan said, pulling back Boromir's bandages. "She was probably just itching for an introduction."

"Why is that creature not in the barn? You do not seem so overcome with pests to warrant a feline. Are you so frightened by mice to sanction that beast's presence in your own home?"

There it is again, Morgan thought to herself. That same dictatorial misogynistic tone. I pity the woman who falls in love with him... Morgan smiled, grabbing the last bandage, and ripping it off more sadistically than normal. A few chest hairs went with the bandage, and Boromir yelped in pain. Morgan could not help but laugh at the irony. Boromir was a tall man, strong and built. His toned muscles left nothing to be desired, and yet he screeched when a few tiny, little hairs got tugged.

Her humour did not go unnoticed. "Have I said something to amuse you?" he said in dark defiance.

"No," Morgan replied, uncurling her lip. "Penny and Moglie aren't here for my protection or to get rid of mice. Their my pets, my companions, my little babies."

"A woman's sentimentality. Beasts are made to work, or they die. That is their place in this world."

Morgan's mouth gaped in mute rebellion. It took all her conviction to gather her strength, pinch her lips together, and silently declare him to be an ignorant, chauvinistic, lunatic from la-la land. What the hell did he know?

Boromir watched attentively as she redressed his wounds, her mood more sour than before. "It hurt you what I said. Why?" he asked her.

"What do you care?" was her quick reply. "For someone so opinionated, that you're the only one who's right, and everyone else is wrong, what do you care?"

"Is that it? I bruised your pride? Well, for that I am repentant, but I speak only of what I was raised to believe, and you cannot reproach me that."

Morgan turned to look at his face for the first time since entering the room. It was wet with sweat, and his face was pale and ghostly white. Ignoring both his remarks and her feelings toward him, she placed her cool hand on his fevered brow. It was scalding to the touch. She reached for her thermometer and ordered, "Open wide and lift your tongue."

"But what is that? It is your wish to now torture me, because I have angered you?" Boromir queried, staring at the object with mistrust.

"It's just a thermometer. It won't hurt you; open up." Boromir did was he was asked, but with trepidation. "What are..." Boromir began awkwardly, but was cut short.

"Shh! Don't speak. Close your mouth. Give it a minute." Morgan's hand reached down to Boromir's wrist. The rope was tight and close to the skin. She wriggled it slightly loose, so as to feel his pulse; his heart beat soundly.

A silent minute passed, and finally Morgan extracted the thermometer, and Boromir heaved a sigh of relief, but not for long.

"Just what I thought," Morgan said. "You've got a fever."

"Impossible," Boromir replied confidently. "I am too cold to have a fever."

"Are you cold?" She slipped her hand neath the blankets only to feel the warmth of the bed. "You've got a fever, alright. Chills and fever... Hold on, I'll be back in a minute." Morgan returned with a fluffy down duvet, draped it over the bed, and pulled it close to his chin. All that could be seen under the mound of white was his pale face peeking out. She disappeared again, and returned this time with two steaming mason jars of hot water. "Thank God for my woodstove..."

"What are those for?" Boromir said weekly.

"These'll keep you really warm," Morgan replied, screwing the lids on each jar, and wrapping a towel around them. She placed one at his feet, and another at his side. "How's that?"

"Better, I thank you," he said.

"Alright, one more thing. Open up again."

"What for? Another torture device?"

"That all depends on you," Morgan said, smiling at her power of him. "It's just an Advil. It'll help with your pain."

Boromir looked distrustfully at the small remedy, but felt in no state to argue. Morgan popped it in his opened mouth, but before she could bring the glass of water to him, he was already gagging. "It tastes foul!"

"You're not supposed to chew it! Well, here's some water, but it's not likely to get rid of the taste now..."

She held up his head, and he drank deeply. Closing his eyes, he let his mind drift and sleep take him. Morgan stayed by his side, occasionally dipping and wringing a cloth in cool water and wiping his brow until the fever abated.

Boromir slept, but was not restful. He could not be settled, and at times cried out in the dead of the night, startling Morgan.

After the long nights labour, Morgan had made some tea and toast, and sat down to watch the sunrise. It cast its warm orange glow over the sweeping hills and began to climb. The snow had finally stopped, and the power had at last been restored. Having just taken a bite of her buttery toast, Morgan jumped at Boromir's blood-curdling yell. Running to his room, she observed him in bed, face contorted in a violent dream. She shook him, "Boromir, wake up!"

"FRODO!" he cried, eyes opening in terror, tears streaming down the sides of his face.

"Boromir! You're alright. You're here. You were only dreaming."

Breathing deeply, Boromir's eyes focused onto Morgan, and his heart began to settle. His conscience could not easily forget his behaviour toward Frodo, but he could not bear to think of it. "Have I been ill this night?"

"You had a fever, but it broke a couple of hours ago. You haven't been sleeping too well, though; lots of nightmares. How do you feel?"

"As though I have just fought a great battle."

"Well, you kinda did. Your temperature last night was over 102." Just then, a low rumble was heard from outside. It grew louder, and suddenly Morgan smiled, knowingly. "Snowplow!" she declared, and went to see her street being excavated from the feet of snow.

Boromir, fearful of the oncoming thunder, longed to move, and tugged yet again on his restraints. For the first time, he noticed something different. His right handcuff felt looser than before. With a gained enthusiasm, he slowly wriggled his wrist, and all at once, it was free! Reaching over to release his other fetter, his shoulder and arm screamed out in pain for having been still so long. He let no sound pass his lips, and tugged on the rope, at last freeing himself completely. He would be imprisoned no longer!

* * *

**_A/N: Please review!_**


	4. Back to Reality

**Chapter Three**

"**Back to Reality"**

Boromir was at last free; yet, his body suffered as though he had single handedly brawled a cave troll. Rubbing his raw wrists, he cautiously stepped out of his bedchamber, still half nude and barefooted. He espied Morgan at the end of the corridor, her back to him as she gazed out to the wintery scene beyond. He stepped lightly on the cold floor, not wishing to startle his benefactress. Nevertheless, his efforts proved of no regard, whereas the moment she turned around, Morgan began a shrill scream that would rival the torture chambers of Mordor. She is a madwoman, thought Boromir as he stepped toward her, attempting to calm her like a skittish mare. All the commotion had awakened Moglie who barked loudly at the frenzied scene, not at all sure what was going on, but wanting to be a part of it.

Morgan, however, was far from being soothed at Boromir's incessant sh-ings. Seeing the madman suddenly appear had given her the fright of her life, and running into the kitchen, she grabbed the biggest carving knife she had and was prepared to kill him if he dared come near her. If only she really had a Tazer like she had said!

"Don't come near me!" Morgan shouted, thrusting the knife in his direction in an attempt to make her intentions crystal clear.

Boromir was baffled beyond understanding. "Did I not say that I would not harm you? Why do you behave in this way? As a lady of the westfold, I should think you..."

But Boromir was cut short; Morgan had reached her limit. "I don't CARE what women in your imaginary country are forced to endure by barbaric men!" she screeched. "I want you OUT! GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!"

Boromir stared at her, baffled, and then flared, "I should be happy to oblige! Thank you kindly for your aid, and somewhat savage hospitality! Never before have I been incarcerated by a lady with more beauty than sanity." Boromir stormed back to his bedchamber, and seizing his clothing, began to dress as swiftly as his throbbing chest would allow.

Morgan was left clutching her kitchen knife, wondering if he was getting a weapon of his own, or possibly barricading himself in the bedroom. She had hidden the swords in the shed, as the knives creeped her out no end, and was glad of her foresight.

Far from fortifying himself in, Boromir was more than happy to depart this lunatic land, and search for home. Days had passed, and Aragorn and the others were now leagues ahead of him. He knew he must track their trail, but he also knew that he would have some explaining to do regarding his betrayal against Frodo.

Boromir strode toward the front door, and painfully pulled on his long boots. Despite the scowl on his face, and churlish dark eyes, he paused at the door, saying softly, "I would not have you think me ungrateful for the kindness you have performed. I am most indebted to your having saved my life. I shall trespass on you no longer."

Witless as to a reply, Morgan stood motionless and watched him attempt to leave. He paused a moment at the strange door handle, but did not wish to give the incensed woman any gratification in his beseeching for help. He struggled against the knob for a moment, and then pried it free, and stepped outside to freedom.

The door was shut, and she observed him stand a moment, no doubt deciding what next to do. Some moments passed before he finally made his way into the forest, assumedly in search of his boat. Without guilt, Morgan stepped close to the door and turned the lock.

"Say what?!"

"It's true," Morgan said nodding, a smile on her face. Now that the ordeal was all over with, she could laugh about it. The hospital around her and her friend Lakeesha was quiet, with more visitors than patients. Lakeesha and Morgan were each dressed in their robin's egg blue scrubs, each carrying supplies in hand, Lakeesha gaga over Morgan's bizarre news.

"But who was he really?" Lakeesha asked, her eyes open wide with disbelief.

"Don't know. No ID, no wallet, no money. The guy was a real kook. Here's what he looked like," Morgan said, handing over her camera. It showed Boromir passed out in bed. "I thought I'd check him out on_ America's Most Wanted_."

"Girl...he's cute!"

"Cute, but crazy... Let's not forget the crazy part," Morgan added, now stacking their supplies on a trolley as Lakeesha flipped through the pictures.

"I don't know," Lakeesha said smiling. "Sometimes crazy adds the spice in life, know what I'm saying? Crazy can sometimes be great in bed..."

"Yeah, well, after Eric, I don't need anymore crazy, thank you."

"Now _that_ boy was crazy!" Lakeesha confirmed. "What did you say he gave you for your last birthday?"

"After our break-up? A dozen red roses, each one with their head's chopped off. Smartest thing I ever did was break it off. No, I'll admit that Boromir was off the deep end, but seemed harmless in comparison to Eric, anyway."

Lakeesha grinned, still looking at pictures of an unconscious, bed-ridden Boromir. "Did you ever get a look at the family treasure?"

"What? No! I was strictly professional! I spent my four days off the job, doing my job and not getting paid for it."

"Girl, this is _me_ you're talkin' to," Lakeesha begged. "You must've taken just a little peak."

Morgan could not help but grin. Boromir _had_ really been out of it, and yet cute enough that she had been curious. "Well, maybe just one."

"And?" Lakeesha said greedily.

"Impressive," Morgan confirmed, though her face was a little pink with embarrassment.

"Ooh!" Lakeesha said, giggling. "He's got the look of it, too. Not like a Brother, but he's a big man. Gotta get me some of that!"

"Well, he's gone, thankfully enough," Morgan said, straightening up. "Won't see him again."

Boromir had sat beside his elven boat for some time deciding his next course of action. His sword was gone, as well as his ancestral Horn of Gondor, of which his father might never forgive him. There were two Orc blades within the boat, and choosing the nicer of the two, though each rough and crudely made, he slipped it into his golden, elvish belt, and began to follow the frozen river east on foot.

Nothing appeared familiar in this treacherous, foreign land. If Morgan's hostile conduct was any clue, he was in a most inhospitable country. Naught seemed familiar, from the distant houses, to the terrain he now travelled upon. And how had the weather changed so suddenly, as if by an enchantment?

He journeyed onward, stomping through deep snow, shivering in the biting wind, and attempting to warm himself with memories with every step. His thoughts continuously gravitated toward Faramir. What stories he would have to tell his younger brother from this adventure of his! How Faramir would laugh at his expense, especially of his treatment at the hands of mistress Morgan. Boromir sighed. He would miss Morgan. She was unlike any lady he had ever before met. She cared not for his declaration of title or land. Her hands were not shy of him, and she had a warmth about her which quite unmanned him. He admittedly knew nothing of maiden's ways; soldiering was all he knew. He could readily stir the hearts of men going into battle, but hardly dared to attempt to stir passions in a lady's mysterious heart. Aye, Morgan was different. He had never seen a woman dress so strangely, or cut her hair so short, as a man would yet it did not detour his intrigue.

Night soon fell, and Boromir stopped for rest. He felt as weak and tired as a young child, and not the warrior that he was. Taking shelter neath the sweeping branches of a mighty blue spruce, Boromir was thankful to find his flint still in his pocket, and masterfully began a tiny fire.

"No food or water," he lamented to himself as he warmed his ice cold hands. He had left Morgan's house so hurriedly and under such unfriendly terms, he had not thought of food, yet, it was foremost on his mind, now. His stomach complained, but naught could he do to appease it. He was simply too exhausted to hunt, and the only noise he heard that night was the distant hoot of an owl flying far overhead.

"Aye, Morgan is indeed different," he said aloud to himself and his flickering fire. "And what if Frodo should succeed?" he wondered. He felt far from the rages of battle and Sauron's looming threat. The fingers of war had not yet touched this land, he observed, and for the first time, so distant from the watchful gaze of the Eye, he held hope for Frodo. "Perhaps it could be done," he said aloud to none but himself. "Perhaps they will succeed. Perhaps there is still hope." The thought had never before entered his consciousness, and he had declared those at Elrond's great council daydreamers and fools to dare believe that destroying their one true advantage would amount to a victory. Yet now, so far from war, he began to doubt his steely resolve. Much had he learned of his Fellows during their journey in past weeks. Much had he learned of Hobbits, Dwarves, and Elves, and of Aragon, too. Would he be King? Could the halfling, so small and harmless, penetrate Mordor and do what Isildur could not?

Boromir awoke asking himself the same questions in the next morn. The sun rose into the already bright sky, but the wind blew colder and fiercer than the previous day. Walking against the wind, every morsel of him ached, yet his thoughts prevented his heart from succumbing to pain and hunger.

"If Frodo succeeds, what then for me?" he pondered. "Aragorn, if he lives, will surely be crowned king." He would not deny his friend that right, nor could he any longer begrudge him that tempting future. As a child, he had dreamed of casting down Sauron's mighty forces, and at last proclaiming himself king of his much beloved realm. Now, that was to never be. What could his future possibly now hold for him?

The White City was his home, yet in the governship of another king, his father demoted, he knew he could not stay. He was a soldier at heart, but if there was to be peace, how would he spend his days?

Marriage? He rarely thought of it. Women frightened him more than battle, he readily admitted it. "And what of Morgan?" he thought with every step that he took away from her. His thoughts always returned to Morgan. Perhaps after the war, he would return and seek her out. He knew nothing about wooing women. He was artless in compliments, and gallant deeds expressing love. "And she did not seem to wish to see me again," he said with a sorrowful note of finality. "I am a soldier, and a soldier I shall stay," he said, and quickened his pace onward through the thinning trees.

It was near evening when Boromir could at last go no farther. He stood on sandy shores, at a loss for words or wisdom. The great expanse and thundering waves of an ocean blocked his path, and he stared at it with dismay. Where had he erred? He lifted his head to the waning sun; it was setting in the west. Yet in the east, there was naught but water. No farther could he go. A man and his hound strode near, yet seemed hesitant to step too closely to Boromir. Thinking of Morgan's reaction, he knew he must look odd to the outlander and said, "Forgive me, for I am a stranger in this land. Can you tell me what body of water this is?"

The stranger had thought the freak with the sword strange, but smiled politely, and replied, "That's the Atlantic Ocean", and then quickly made his getaway with his dog.

Boromir stood, his face pounded by the frigid wind, his mind swimming in a sea of confusion. "Atlantic Ocean..." he repeated. Never had he heard of any such ocean before. How far east had he travelled? There could be no doubt of his not being in Middle Earth any longer. He was utterly lost, and felt close to tears. What on earth was he to do?

Far from forgetting about her houseguest, Morgan had thought about him often in the days following his brisk goodbye. She wasn't sorry to see him go, crackpot that he was, but she couldn't deny there had been something inexplicable in his manner, that she couldn't quite put her finger on. A deep sadness. "Everyone's got a sob story," she told herself, shrugging the experience off, and not thinking about it again until the following morning. Swathed in her fuzzy pink bathrobe, she let Moglie out to have his morning pee, only to discover Boromir sitting on her front step, his back facing her.

"Boromir?!" she said, but he did not move. She stepped lightly around him in her knee-high boots, and stooped down to look into his face. His eyes were bloodshot, and his face as pale as the snow. He gazed up at her, helplessly.

"Oh my God, Boromir! Come inside."

"Nay, I only require some food, if you please. And have you a map? I need to get to..."

"You're sick!" she said, pulling his arm over her shoulder, barely supporting his heavy weight.

"I cannot trespass..."

"It wouldn't be the first time."

"Nay, I will not have you bind my hands again. I told you," he said, an inch from her face, his red eyes pleading into her pale blue eyes. "Never would I harm you."

God, am I ever a sucker, she thought to herself. "Alright, just come on inside. You'll catch your death out here."

Boromir had little choice, and he knew it. Certain he would wake only to again find himself bound to her bed, he accepted that fate regardless, for he had no strength to argue any more.

* * *

**_A/N: Please review!_**


	5. Mercy

**Chapter Four**

"**Mercy"**

It was with some trepidation that Boromir again entered Morgan's house. He did not fear her, but merely wished that she could trust him. Despite his expectation to be returned to his bedchamber and bound, she aided him to the long bench and examined him a moment. Her hands felt smooth and warm against his frozen, rugged skin. He knew not if the fever and lack of food were the cause of him being so dizzy, or if it be the sweet scent of her hair as she came close. Regardless, weak and helpless in such an able maiden's care, he already felt on the mend.

"Will you be alright on the couch for a minute? I need to get dressed."

"Certainly," Boromir replied, his eyes shy and unskilled.

Morgan strode off to change out of her pajamas, her mind a squall of confusion. As a nurse, she should never have let Boromir leave; she knew he had not been in a fit state to go anywhere. At first congratulating herself for being rid of him, the days following his disappearance had led her to reconsider. She hadn't missed him. Had she? She wasn't sure. He was funny; she never knew what harebrained thing he was going to say next. And yet, missed him or not, like him or not, there was one unequivocal thing she could not deny.

She had finished dressing and tidying her unruly short

brown hair, her mind now firmly made up.

Obediently, Boromir had not moved and could not help but smile upon Morgan's re-entrance.

"Boromir," she began seriously, "I'm worried about you. You're feverish and there might be infection. I'm thinking pneumonia."

"Is it grave?"

"It can be, so I really think we should go to the hospital. They'll be able to do chest x-rays, and determine if it's pneumonia or bronchitis, and see if there's any infection from your wounds."

Boromir had understood little of what she had just said. "What is a hospitable?"

Morgan blinked, and could not help but smirk and shake her head. Just when he was seeming so normal... "A _**hospital**_, Boromir, is where you go when you're sick."

"Ah, we have just such a place in Minas Tirith, though it is known as the Houses of Healing. Are there learned people there who are familiar with such illnesses as mine own?"

"Yes. Doctors and nurses. That's where I work."

Boromir grinned, and for the first time, Morgan noticed how his entire face beamed when he was smiling. "You did not mention so before!" Boromir said. "Aye, you make a very good healer! But why can we not stay here?"

"The hospital has medicines, Boromir, that I don't have. I really think you should go."

His smile faded. He sensed there was something of which she was not telling. "If it is your wish."

Boromir may have felt trepidation upon re-entering Morgan's house, but upon entering her car, he felt nothing short of terror. Had he had more strength, he could have put up more of a fight, but as weak as he was, she easily muzzled him.

"What do you call this death chamber?" Boromir said, his eyes wide with anxiety.

"A Honda," Morgan said, buckling his seatbelt, and then her own before turning on the ignition. The car roared to life, and Boromir gave a shudder.

"Must we travel this way? Have you not a horse?" Boromir said, gripping onto the door for dear life.

Morgan looked incredulously at him. "Nope. Sorry. It's either this or we walk, and I ain't walking."

Morgan passed Boromir a box of crackers and a bottle of water. "Sorry this is so rushed. It's important we get to the hospital before your condition worsens."

Boromir, with a furrowed brow, examined his curious articles, and took amusement in discovering how they worked as the Honda lurched forward.

Morgan's Honda was smoother than by horse, Boromir granted, but much too fast! They travelled swifter than a wagon pulled by twelve Rohan steeds, and as if that were not unpleasant enough, the car suddenly began to make the most high-pitched, horrific sound imaginable. "I fear your Honda is dying," Boromir said, his hands covering his ears.

"Huh?"

"Can you not hear that dreadful sound? It requires healing, I think..."

"No Mariah Carey, huh? Well, to each his own." Morgan turned the dial, from which then an Eminem song came on. Boromir looked horrified. He obviously wasn't a fan, Morgan noted. Continuing to turn the dial, she came across a Celtic music station, and at once, Boromir looked more at peace. The woodwinds, drums, and fiddle played in rhythmic harmony, and Boromir smiled. "But how is this possible?" he said, closely examining the radio. "What magic is this?"

Morgan smiled, but it was a piteous smile. He reminded her of her nephew...all child-like wonder and innocence. "It's not magic, Boromir," she said, gently. "It's a radio."

"But how does it work? Are there little men playing in there?"

Try as she might, she could not suppress a laugh. "No, no little men in there. You see its made by..." She was about to explain the intricacies of radio waves, and of satellites, but what the hell for? He wouldn't understand anyway. Or at least, pretend not to.

He continued to stare at her intently, his face now sweaty with fever. "Alright, you caught me," she said kindly. "It is magic."

Boromir smiled, and gawked at the radio, its blue lights glowing even in the light of day. "Such wonders..." he said quietly, and settled back, watching the white world fly by, listening to 'Danny Boy'.

Nothing in Boromir's life had prepared him for what came next. He sat in the car, mouth agape at the phenomena flying past. Hondas flooded the grey road, a sea of colours moving in every direction. Tall towers blocked out the sun, and shined with mirror-like stars blinding him. Giant birds soared overhead, loud and thunderous were their cries of fury as they circled.

Morgan had been eyeing him on the drive. He's either one hell of an actor, or he's really lost it, she thought to herself as she drove further into the city, pausing at a stoplight. "Ever been to Portland before, Boromir?" she ventured, curious to see his reaction.

Boromir simply shook his head, eyes attempting to take in all the fantastic wonders around him. "Never would I have dreamt that such a place as this existed." He watched the passers by in awestruck amazement. There was so much diversity and marvels to behold! So many species of Man, and variations of dress! "Are they all from this land?" he said to Morgan, pointing at people crossing the street. "Shall I find kinsmen of mine own in the great city?"

"I dunno, Boromir," Morgan said vaguely. "I haven't heard of anyone else from Gondola."

"Gondor," he corrected without looking at her. It was all too incredible for words. Had his father this technology, they would certainly defeat Sauron! Such knowledgeable soldiers must exist in such an advanced city! Boromir's spirits brightened at the prospect. He should never have tried to take the One Ring, but it mattered no longer! Here he would at last discover a weapon powerful enough to destroy Sauron!

Morgan drove her car into the Mercy Hospital parking lot, and parked at the staff parking. Turning off the ignition, she announced, "We're here. Are you okay, Boromir? You shouldn't be nervous..."

Boromir had always prided himself on his bravery, but in such a foreign land, injured such as he was, his courage failed him, and he sat shivering in his boots. However, he could not bear the thought of Morgan believing him to be a coward, and so he merely said, "I fear nothing."

Morgan didn't really believe him, but hadn't the heart to wound his pride more than he was obviously suffering.

With Morgan's aid, they walked through the sweeping doors of the ER. Boromir had nearly jumped out his skin witnessing doors that moved of their own volition, but Morgan's firm grasp comforted him, and they approached the reception desk. At first the receptionist didn't recognize Morgan, but at once, her face lit up. "Hey, Morgan! What are you doing here? Isn't it your day off?" Her gaze gravitated toward the tall, muscular man to Morgan's right, and she did a double take.

"Yes, Franny, it is. I just had to bring in my friend, here. He's not doing so well."

Franny eyed Boromir dubiously. "That's an understatement," she said. "Curtain three is free."

"Thanks," Morgan replied, ushering Boromir into a small room with hospital beds and curtains lined up in a row.

"Morgan, this is naught like the Houses of Healing," Boromir said with more misgiving than expected.

"No worries," Morgan knowingly assured, helping him onto the bed. "I'm here. No one's going to hurt you, I promise." Boromir closed his eyes, and Morgan, without thinking, grabbed Boromir's chart, beginning to fill out the necessary paperwork. She stopped dead on the first question, 'Name'. "Oh, mercy, me!" Morgan breathed. If all that Boromir had so far told her was any indication, she didn't know who they'd think was more crazy, her or Boromir. Nevertheless, this was why she had brought him here. She couldn't wimp out now.

"Uh, Boromir, just a few questions. Um...name?"

"Morgan, you know my name," Boromir said, gazing at her. Was she truly so forgetful?

"Remind me."

"Boromir son of Denethor, of the House of Húrin," Boromir replied, laying his head back down upon the pillow.

"Uh huh," she said, copying his every word down onto paper. "And, uh, address?"

"I do not understand..."

"Street, town, you know..."

"Minas Tirith in Gondor, he said, now shaking his head. "But Morgan, you know all this!"

"I just don't want to get something wrong," she said, using the clipboard to hide her guilt-ridden face. "And...are you, uh, married?"

"Nay, I am not."

Morgan had not dared look at him, but she felt the oddest yippee of joy upon hearing his answer. "Date of birth?"

"April twentieth, in the year twenty-nine seventy-eight of the third age."

For nearly a solid minute, Morgan could do nothing but stand there stupidly, not having nerve enough to look at him and say, "Cut the crap!" Instead, she swallowed her resolve and moved onto the next question. "Employee information?"

"I am Captain-General of my father's army, and High Warden of the White Tower."

Morgan bit down hard on her lip. Shaking her head, she wrote down his reply, cursing under her breath.

Boromir heard her utterances, and asked how she fared.

"Oh, I'm fine! Just _**dandy**_! Do you have any insurance?"

"I know not what other assurances I can make to you, but I swear..."

"No, that's okay," she said, writing "none" on the line. "Um...next of kin?"

"My father and my brother, Faramir."

"I didn't know you had a brother," she said, peeking out from behind the chart.

"Aye, my younger brother."

"And he lives with you in...Minas Tirith?"

"Aye..."

"Just checking." Morgan sighed. This was harder than she thought it would be. "Medical history?" She couldn't wait for this one.

"Well, the five arrows - that you already know of. I broke my wrist a twelvemonth ago in battle, and three ribs falling off a horse when I was nine."

The pen continued to scratch along the paper some moments after he had finished talking, Morgan quickly copied every word, including the word 'twelvemonth' which she thought odd. "Any blood diseases that we should be aware of? AIDS, Hepetitis, HIV?"

Boromir looked at her as though she began speaking another language. He made no answer, and again she peeked at him beyond her clipboard. "No? Okay," and left each box blank. She placed the clipboard in its holder at the end of the bed, and could not look at him.

"Morgan..."

"Hm?" Morgan replied, still not looking at him, but finding the ceiling tile suddenly very interesting.

"Morgan...What troubles you? Do you not think I will be welcome here, for if we should go..."

"Nooo!" Morgan replied, now looking at him. "It's alright. We should stay. It'll be alright."

"What have I done? Have I said something to offend you? Is it because I have never before spoken of Faramir? I will tell you all about him if you wish it..."

"No, it's okay, Boromir," she said, getting a better hold on her emotions. It was evident that he was sensitive to them. "I'm alright. I'm just...worried about you."

A pregnant moment passed, and Boromir was about to answer when a tall man with short black hair wearing a white coat entered and picked up Boromir's chart. "Harris? What are you doing here?" He appeared very happy to see her, Boromir jealously observed, until he, himself, was spotted. "Who's your friend?"

"Davis, this is Boromir. Boromir, this is Dr. Gavin Davis. Boromir's a friend in need of some...help."

Davis took a swift glance at the chart, and then looked incredulously at Morgan. "I don't have time for this, Harris! If this is your idea of some kind of stupid joke..."

"No joke," Morgan said calmly. "No joke."

Davis stared at Morgan a moment, still skeptical of her seriousness. "As a nurse, then, would you recommend him to see the psych consult?"

"Yes." She knew Boromir had no idea of what they were talking about; it was written all over his face. She turned away from his trusting eyes, pleading silently for answers and confirmations. Why did this feel like a betrayal?

"Alright, then," Davis replied, seemingly convinced. "Go and tell Franny. I need to have a word with your friend, here."

Morgan stepped out from behind the curtain, and felt numb. Boromir had trusted her, but she had no choice. She knew she had no choice. He would be better off. He would get the help he needs. He would be safe.

"Alright! Fess up! Who's the hunk-a-hunk-a-burnin'-love you got stashed in there?" Franny said as she approached.

"Just a friend."

"What is he, English? I thought I heard an accent..." Franny said, straining her head to try and get a better look.

"Something like that. Listen, can you order a psych consult for curtain three?"

Franny looked taken aback. "For your friend?"

Morgan merely nodded. She was so tired all of a sudden. Why did she feel so guilty?

"I'll call right now," Franny said, curious, but unwilling to pester her friend into confessions.

Morgan didn't know what to do with herself. Her anxious hands felt restless, so she put them to work doing dishes in the staff room. Elbow deep in soapy water, she raised her head only when the door opened. Davis strode in. She had expected to get a razzing from her co-workers about her unusual friend, but Davis didn't seem to find it so funny.

"What rock did he crawl out from?" he said, clicking his ballpoint pen repeatedly. "Where do you know this guy from?"

Morgan looked up at him, but didn't smile. Davis was gorgeous. He had a strong, Grecian profile, but zero sense of humour. "To be honest, I've only known him a week. I don't know anything about his history, just...what he's told me...what I put on the form. He's harmless."

"Whoa, wait! You just met this guy?! Harris, what are you doing with a screwball like that? He could've killed you!"

Morgan didn't reply. She pulled the plug on the sink, and the vacuum of the water made a deep, regurgitating sound.

Davis sensed he was being ignored. "Is this your thing? I mean, is this what you do? Meet some random guy, fuck him, and..."

Morgan whipped around, her eyes dangerous. "Get over yourself, Davis. You and I had one date, one night, one big mistake. Boromir is none of your business, but for the record, we haven't. Alright? He needs help..."

"Obviously!"

"...so I brought him here. Got a problem with that?"

Davis looked seditious. "He's asking for you. I'm still waiting on the psych consult." He left, and flicked the door so hard it banged into the wall leaving a mark on the mint green paint. Shaking her head, Morgan cursed herself. She should've taken Boromir to a different hospital.

Morgan went and sat beside Franny at the reception desk. Without asking, she began to sort the mountain of folders loaded atop Franny's desk, desperate for a reason not to go see Boromir. Seeing her friend was in distress, Franny let her continue. "Your friend's been asking for you..."

Nodding her head, Morgan made no motion to go to him. She simply sat there with a look of confusion upon her face.

"Your friend not doing too well?"

"He's lost his marbles," Morgan replied as though she were commenting on the weather.

Widening her eyes, Franny struggled for what to say in reply. Thinking it best to maybe change the subject, she said, "Have you seen your brother? He just brought in a DUI."

"Morgan? There you are! I heard you were in!"

Morgan turned to see a very familiar face. He had eyes like hers, but he was much taller in stature and frame, and he wore a blue police officer's uniform. Smiling, Morgan turned and hugged her brother. "Wyatt! Haven't seen you in weeks."

"It's been slow with the weather; everybody's been staying home. Just brought in a drunk driver who crashed into an electrical pole. It's not even noon, and the crazies are already out. Are you working? Where are your scrubs?"

Morgan shook her head. "I'm here for a friend."

"Oh no. Who? Anyone I know?"

Morgan shook her head. Just then, Boromir began to shout Morgan's name at the top of his lungs. Morgan rushed to his side, Wyatt on her heels, and Davis standing at the foot of the bed looking severe.

"Morgan!" Boromir bellowed, confused and agitated, but upon seeing her, he felt relief at last. Such a disorienting place. The bright lights irritated him, and he was now fastened to tortuous devices. It all became too much for his stout heart to take...

"It's okay," Morgan said, quickly grabbing his hand. "Don't be scared. I'm here."

"Somebody call for a consultant?"

Everyone turned to see a chipper looking man with a beard standing alongside Wyatt.

"You're at the right place," Davis said darkly to the psychiatric consultant. "Morgan, Boromir'll need to be examined, and we need to talk."

Boromir held on fast to Morgan's hand. Never should they have come to this deplorable place. He longed for space, and air to breathe. A fear suddenly came upon him that she was going to abandon him here. "Do not go Morgan, I beg you..."

Morgan sensed the pleading in his voice, and saw the look of absolute terror on his face. "I'll be right outside the curtain; I promise. It'll be alright." She smiled at him, and after a moment, his hand relaxed and let go of hers. The psych consult swung the curtain closed, and Morgan, Wyatt, and Davis huddled together.

"What's with the kook, and how does he know your first name? I thought all you nurses and doctors refer to each other by last names," Wyatt asked.

"He's Morgan's boyfriend," Davis said viciously.

"What?"! Wyatt said, eyes now wide. Morgan was really getting sick of that 'Are you crazy?' look.

"No, he's not! Davis, grow up. He's just a friend, Wyatt. I could see he was having some problems, so I'm trying to get him the help he needs. Isn't that what a friend should do, after all? My God, the way you both harp on me! I'm trying to do the right thing; he obviously needs professional help!"

"You got that right," Davis said, his eyes grim and unforgiving. "He says he's from Gondor. Do you know where Gondor is?"

Morgan shook her head. "There's actually a place called 'Gondor'? I thought he was off the deep end!"

"He _**is**_ off the deep end, Harris!" Davis said, cruelly. "Gondor was the name of the planet in _Star Wars_ with the stupid furry Ewoks. He thinks he's from another planet!"

"No, that's Endor," Wyatt said, correcting him, but suddenly feeling like a really big nerd. "Regardless, where did you meet this guy?" Wyatt said, turning on her.

This was the explanation Morgan was dreading. Looking back on her actions and where she found him, she knew it sounded crazy, but what else could she have done? Luckily, Davis replied for her, relieving her of her explanatory duties.

"Probably some seedy bar..." Davis replied snidely.

"Watch it, she's my sister," Wyatt quickly shot back.

Just then, the psych consult opened the curtain, and joined the circle. "Well, verdicts in."

"And?" Davis asked.

"Oh, he's insane," the consultant said, smiling, and much too chipper than he should be, Morgan thought. "I'm recommending him to be moved to the main facility where he can be properly diagnosed."

"What do you think's wrong with him?" Morgan said, not sure if she really wanted an answer.

"Oh, could be schizophrenia, or maybe psychosis..." he said, popping a Tic-Tac into his mouth.

Morgan swallowed hard. She knew she had done the right thing, and yet she felt so terrible. He was to be locked up in a loony bin, and it was all her doing. She didn't want him free if he could get the help he needs, and yet it still didn't feel right. "Do you think he's a US Citizen?" she said, throwing the thought out.

That was a thought that had not previously occurred to any of them, because for a moment, each stood and contemplated the logistics of such an idea.

"He does have an accent..." Wyatt noted.

"Seems unused to our culture," Davis granted. "The freak called me a healer..."

"It's possible," the consultant said, now chewing on the Tic-Tac. "I'll make a note of it, and get them to run his prints. He's probably already in the system." With that he smiled, and strode off to do his paperwork. Davis sneered at her, and marched away. Wyatt said a quick goodbye before going to check on his own patient.

Morgan was then left alone outside Boromir's curtain. How was she to face him, knowing where he was to go? He trusted her, and he was utterly clueless as to his near future.

She heard him shift in his bed, and give a soft moan. Gathering her remaining courage, she pulled aside the curtain, and peeked in.

Boromir lay upon the hospital bed, IV tube in arm, dressed in a hospital gown, and hooked onto several machines. His face was careworn and pale under the flourescent lights. She sat upon the bed, and held his hand.

"Hey," she said, full of guilt. "How ya doing?"

"I have been better," Boromir replied.

Morgan stared at him, and saw only the shell of a man who had been so full of venom and fire but a few days before. This experience seemed to have striped him bare, and mercilessly robbed him of all strength and vigor. Where had the man who threatened to slit her savage throat gone?

"Morgan, pray, when can we leave this wretched place?"

Morgan again swallowed hard. She put on her bravest face and said, "I'm afraid you'll have to spend the night. They won't hurt you. Everyone only means well here. I promise you'll be okay."

"They won't let me. I'm sorry, but I'll be back tomorrow."

Reluctantly, Boromir agreed. He felt he had little choice. If not for Morgan, he would have broken free of his strange confines, and escaped. However, all he had to believe in, in this bizarre country, was her. He trusted her unwaveringly. He would stay.

* * *

**_A/N: Please review!!!_**


	6. The English Patient

**Chapter Five**

"**The English Patient"**

In the months following Boromir's incarceration, Morgan's life had changed little. The realization that it was Boromir that had made her life so interesting was of no comfort to her. Her life sequestered back to it's state of monotony, and life again became lonely.

She had had no word from Boromir. She hadn't really expected any, but was always hopeful when she ran into the disgustingly perky psych consultant.

Davis seemed intent on never letting her forget Boromir. For Valentines Day, despite getting another disturbing box of beheaded roses, she was dateless and on the way out the door when Davis chimed in, "Going to see your boyfriend in the psycho ward? Maybe he'll have some roses for you."

At first the thought of Boromir locked up tortured her. He seemed such a free spirit, but like all excuses, she began to reason with herself that her choice had been the right one. What else could she have done? Let him be? What if he had hurt someone, or himself? How could she forgive herself such negligence? Yet, no matter how she reasoned, and no matter how all her excuses made perfect sense, she was left feeling like she had made the wrong decision.

However miserable Morgan felt, it was nothing compared to the agony of which was now Boromir's most grievous existence.

Morgan had not come before the goons captured him and took him away. At first he had politely refused to do their bidding, and to await Morgan's return. They did not heed him, and at last he was punctured with something and all went dark. He woke up in another house of healing, yet glaringly white and cold. His arms were confined again to his bed, and his healers were distrusting and malevolent.

A week passed before his restraints were unfastened, and at first chance, Boromir made for his escape! He thrust all his fist could afford onto a man's jaw, shattering the bone neath the skin. Elbowing another man in the neck, the worker dropped to the floor, grasping his throat, and gasping for air. An alarm sounded, louder than Boromir ever would have believed possible, and he broke free of the room, running down the hall half mad with purpose.

More soldiers in white appeared, closing in. Boromir ran toward an iron gate, but it would not give way and open. He pulled on it's bars in maniacal desperation, when suddenly he felt a sharp pain, and all his world again faded to blackness.

"Why did you attack my guards?"

Boromir turned to stare at his inquisitor. The man was clean-shaven with brisk short hair, and was clad in grey. He appeared serious, but not cruel. Boromir shifted slightly. They had dressed him in an appalling device, and he could not move.

"I apologize of the use of the straight jacket," the man continued when Boromir had made no reply, "but as you've just hospitalized two of my men, you give me no choice."

"What..." Boromir said softly. So softly, the man at first could barely hear, and cocked his ear, listening intently. "What is it you want of me?"

"Why, for you to get better," the man said. "For you to be able to once again join your fellow man in society without fear of your harming them."

"I assure you, I pose no threat."

"Well, I'd like to believe that...uh, what is it you call yourself? Boromir? Well, I'd like to believe you, Boromir, but as two of my men are seriously injured, one with a broken jaw, I'm sure you'll understand why I'm disagreeing with you."

"It was they who were hurting me. In my land, men do not confine one another without wrongdoing. I have committed no crime."

"No, no crime."

"Then why do you imprison me?" Boromir said, he voice cracking slightly.

"For your own safety. I know it is difficult for you to understand, but things are not as they seem, Boromir. We are not against you. It is our desire to help you. We want you to get well."

"I am no longer ill; my wounds have healed."

"Yes," the man said gently, "but I'm not talking about your wounds, but of your mind. You've been having what we refer to as 'delusional hallucinations'. You've been imagining things that aren't really there. There is no 'Gondor'..."

"There is!"

The man sighed. "My name is Dr. Larkin and I am the head doctor at this facility. We will be seeing more of each other in the time to come. Until I am assured that you pose no threat to any of my staff, you will remain in that straight jacket. If you want out, you're going to have to earn it."

The man promptly left, and Boromir was left alone sitting beside the barred up window. A woeful tear rolled down his cheek, and yet, he was not even able to wipe it away.

Boromir was being punished for his crime; he knew it. There simply was no other explanation that made sense to his already troubled mind. Still confined to what they referred to as the 'straight jacket', he was permitted to at last interact with others, and was placed in a large room of men. It was at such a point that Boromir at last understood just exactly what they thought of him. "They think me mad!" he said in awestruck enlightenment. He glanced about the dismal room with its worn furniture, and chipped walls. More bars covered the windows, and men, comatose and drooling, or else muttering and twitching were everywhere. Yet for Boromir, he knew there would be no escape. What was he to do?

"I must say, you've made excellent progress these few months, Boromir," Dr. Larkin said as he sat with Boromir on their weekly session. He examined the report with a smile.

Boromir sat across from him and beamed. "I am trying, Dr. Larkin. I am trying very hard to get better."

"I can see that. Dr. Mathews reports that your daily sessions have shown dramatic improvement."

"I am glad to hear it!" Boromir said. He would put on any clothing they wished him to. He would say anything they wished him to say, if they would just let him leave. Somehow he had travelled from Middle Earth to this despicable place, and regardless of risk or reward, he had no choice but to find his way back.

"Alright," Dr. Larkin said, closing the report and giving Boromir his full attention. "I need to ask you some questions, Boromir, and I'd like you to answer them truthfully. Do you understand?"

"I do."

"Where do you come from?"

"I do not remember."

"You do not come from Gondor?"

"There is no such place as Gondor. I only imagined that I did." Boromir smiled. He had learned the game quickly.

"And what is your name?"

"I do not know."

"It isn't really Boromir, is it?"

"I do not think so."

"Did you give yourself that name?"

"Yes. I could not remember, so I named myself."

Dr. Larkin sat back, pleased with himself.

"Well, Boromir, it feels so good when we have made a difference. I know we've been testing you a lot lately, but I think we have finally come to a diagnosis of what is wrong with you."

"Oh?" Boromir said, no longer smiling. He had not counted on this. "What is that?"

"It is my belief that you have an acute form of amnesia. Not remembering your name or where you came from, you made up a persona to start your life again, so to speak. Sometimes the mind has difficulty when it struggles to unlock memories. When they can't be unlocked, sometimes the brain makes up things that aren't true, so as to help explain one's existence. Does that sound right to you?"

"Yes," Boromir said smiling.

"Unfortunately, there are problems. The government has kept a close eye on you ever since you arrived here, and they're worried. You see, they don't think you're an American citizen. You were fingerprinted, remember? They put that ink on your fingertips? Well, there's just no trace of you anywhere. You have no criminal record, I'm happy to say, not in the USA, not anywhere. Interpol has been contacted, and no one has any record of you anywhere."

Boromir felt lost in the conversation. He knew they believed he no longer posed any threat. He had said everything correctly, answered every question precisely. Yet, it seemed that even now, they would not let him go.

"Do you understand what I'm saying, Boromir?"

Try as he might, Boromir could not lie to that question. He shook his head, no, hoping that it would not prevent him leaving.

"You are a man with no country, Boromir. We were all sure that you were English, but there's no record of you there. Immigration wants to deport you, but no country will take you. Therefore, you are to remain in the US."

"Then, I can go?" Boromir said, his voice full of hope and longing. "I am no longer ill...I pose no threat..."

"No, no threat..." Dr. Larkin now looked grievous. He had been on strict orders to keep him there. "I'd like to continue with our weekly sessions for a little while longer, Boromir," he said, watching as Boromir's face fell into despair. "Now, don't get discouraged. We're on the right path to recovery!"

Dr. Larkin was again sitting in his office, yet his visitor this time was far less congenial than Boromir. Opposite him sat a short man who felt the necessity to speak sharply in order to make himself feel taller. He had short brown hair, and spoke with a thick southern accent. He was a very important man, being the secondary advisor to the head of the CIS; the United States Citizenship and Immigration Services.

"Now, am I to understand correctly, Dr. Larkin, that you have in possession a Mr. Boromir, as he calls himself?"

"That's correct, Mr. Whitkin."

"Uh huh. Now, has this Mr. Boromir ever told to where he originated from?"

"No. Boromir suffers from acute amnesia. He has no recollection of any of his history."

"The CIS," said Mr. Whitkin in a long southern drawl, "is not so easily duped, Dr. Larkin. We get all kinds of people trying to immigrate illegally. This boy's gotten caught, is all, and is trying to pan himself off as having amnesia. Now, we have not as yet discovered his originating country, but he's certainly in the country illegally."

"What proof do you have of that?"

"Where's his passport?"

"The man has amnesia! He may have lost his passport, or had it stolen. Not having fingerprints on our system or Interpol's only assures us that he isn't a criminal."

"Well, be that as it may, sir, it doesn't answer the question of what we do with him. Now, my boss is emphatic on our not wasting American's tax dollars on non-Americans! Which leaves me with one question. Does this Boromir pose a threat to society were he released?"

"I don't think so."

"Oh, you don't _**think**_ so? Well, I'm afraid I need something more concrete than that, because if in two months time he rapes and kills a woman or holds up a bank, it will not be _**you**_ taking the heat from the press for it! It will be _**me**_! So I need a better answer!"

"He needs more time. He's reacting very well to treatment; he's improved by leaps and bounds, but there's still work to do. This isn't something that you can just rush..."

Mr. Whitkin breathed in very deeply, so much so that his nostrils almost closed entirely. "Now let me make this perfectly clear to you. I pride myself for being an understanding man. A compassionate man. Now, this has got to be nothing short of black or white. He is either not a threat to society, or he is. If he is not, he will be released to the care of a local shelter. If he is a danger to himself or others, I will have no other choice but to contact the FBI, and declare him a possible terrorist. Please understand the gravity of your decision."

* * *

**_A/N: Please review!!!_**


	7. Land of the Free

**Chapter Six**

"**Land of the Free"**

Dr. Larkin had come to a difficult decision. Never would he in good conscience betray the ethics of his profession, but the stupid, little cretin from the CIS had given him little choice. In the end, his decision rested upon what would be best for Boromir.

He tapped his pen impatiently on his desk; his guest was late. Once again checking his gold watch, he was pleasantly surprised when a knock sounded, and the door suddenly opened, a pretty woman in her late twenties walking in.

"Dr. Larkin?" Morgan said, reaching across Dr. Larkin's desk and shaking his hand.

"I am. And you are Morgan Harris?"

"Yes."

"I'm very pleased to meet you. Do sit down."

Morgan sat in the chair opposite the good doctor, which had so often been occupied by Boromir, yet she had no notion of it upon sitting down.

"I believe we have a similar acquaintance," Dr. Larkin began.

"You mean Boromir..." Morgan said. Dr. Larkin nodded affirmative, and Morgan continued. "We have an unusual past, but I would consider us friends."

"I am happy to hear that, Ms. Harris, because Boromir will be needing his friends. He has mentioned you often during our sessions, and continues to request your visiting him."

"I didn't know that. I would have come."

"I hope you'll forgive my not having told you before now. Boromir's case is...unique, and in the beginning, he was showing violent outbursts toward my staff. I thought visits might hamper his recovery." Dr. Larkin went on to explain Boromir's mental condition, of his meeting with the slimy runt of a politician (though not quite in those words), and of Boromir's possible futures. Ms. Harris took his overwhelming news well, he thought.

"So, where is Boromir to go?"

"That has been a dilemma that has kept me up the past three nights. I don't think him a danger, but in a shelter his mental state would deteriorate, I think. He still requires care, and weekly sessions. If the FBI were to take him, I have a strong notion of where he'd be shipped to, and he certainly won't be getting any help there."

"Where would they take him?"

"The government has imposed new laws in the wake of 9/11, Ms. Harris. Boromir fits the bill perfectly. He is an unknown with no known connections to the country. He could easily be deemed a possible threat, or terrorist, if you will. They could hold him in a facility indefinitely with no trial, no other 'just cause' necessary."

"But he's harmless! I know you said that he hurt those men, but you've also said that he's changed, right? You can't send him there!"

Dr. Larkin sighed. "No, I can't. But, I don't feel comfortable just releasing him homeless and destitute onto the street, either."

Morgan at last understood the reason for his phone call, and her requested visit. "So," Morgan said, "reassure me. Is Boromir dangerous? You did say that he attacked your staff. I know I just made excuses for him, but I really don't feel like being murdered."

Dr. Larkin could not help but smile. "In my professional opinion does Boromir pose a threat? No, I don't believe so. I would like to see his treatment continue, and you could make that happen. It isn't my wish to put any sort of pressure on you. I understand you are not his family, that you have no legal obligation, and that it may be a burden. Therefore, I cannot ask you to take him. If he does not go with you, I will release him to a local charity shelter, and keep my fingers crossed. My hands are tied, Ms. Harris. This is all I can do."

Morgan looked out the window a minute, contemplating what a change like this would be to her life. It never ceased to amaze her just how often her thoughts gravitated toward Boromir, and how frequently she reminisced things he had said and done. Without him, her life had been boring and prosaic. He had brought a spark to an otherwise dull existence. The occasional sex with neanderthal men had been her only flicker of a heartbeat until that one winter's day. Did she want to go back to that sordid, isolated existence?

"Alright," Morgan said at last. "I'll take him."

Dr. Larkin smiled, and an invisible weight seemed to lift off his shoulders. He picked up the phone and said, "Hello, can you please send for Boromir? Thank you."

In the minutes that followed, they discussed Boromir, but in a lighter mood. They each could agree that he was an extraordinary man, and unlike any they had ever before met. They both shared in the gladness that Boromir was not to be condemned to one of the government's detention centers, never to be heard from again. To incarcerate so obviously a free bird seemed neighbouring upon sin.

The door opened, and Morgan turned to see the most shocked face she had ever seen. Without a word, Boromir rushed toward her, seizing her in a tight embrace. She had no fears, and did not mind. Affectionately, she stroked his back, soothingly affirming that everything was going to be alright.

"I dared not think that I should ever see you again," Boromir said hushed, his face buried in her shoulder.

"No worries, Boromir," Morgan replied, smiling. "I'm here, and I'm going to take you home."

Grasping her shoulders he held her back a moment, studying her face to see if she were in earnest. "Do not trifle with me, I beg of you. My courage cannot endure such torment."

"She's not trifling with you, Boromir," Dr. Larkin confirmed. "You are being discharged into Ms. Harris' care today."

"Thank you, Doctor!" Boromir said, his voice and body full of elation and spirit.

"You're certainly welcome, son," Dr. Larkin said, holding out his hand to shake Boromir's. Unaware of such customs, Boromir did but what he knew of, and grasped the good doctor's forearm in congenial embrace. The doctor appeared confused a moment, but shrugged it off in the end as another of Boromir's eccentricities.

Boromir climbed into Morgan's death chamber Honda with an eagerness even he would not have thought possible before. Never had he been so delighted to leave a place in all his life.

Morgan mused that he looked like a little boy on Christmas morning, so excited and wide-eyed. "Dr. Larkin seemed nice."

"Aye, he is a good man. Slightly mad, I think, but fair and just."

Morgan could not help but chuckle. How she had missed this! Boromir thought the _**doctor**_ was the mad person in the insane asylum.

"Was it really so bad in there?"

"Oh, yes," said Boromir more sombrely. "Dr. Larkin may have been kind to me, but I shall not deceive you, Morgan. That is the place they send _**mad**_ people!"

"Really?" Morgan said, starting up the car, and pulling out of the parking lot. She felt the strongest pang of guilt as it had been her who put him there for all those months. What he didn't know won't hurt him, she thought.

"It seemed no matter whom I spoke to," Boromir said, "none had heard of Middle Earth, or Gondor, nor Sauron, even!"

Now, Morgan felt a little foolish asking her question, but she could not help herself. "Um, who's Sauron?"

"You neither?" he asked astounded. "I must truly be far from home for none to have heard of Sauron the deceiver."

He said no more, and Morgan let the subject drop. She would save that joy for another day. They roared down the highway, the fresh spring air whipping past. Boromir stared at the budding trees, and recently sprung green grass, his eyes taking in all his newfound freedom would afford.

"Do you want your window open?"

"Is that possible?" Boromir asked, and gazed in awestruck amazement as the glass disappeared before his very eyes! "This is a most wondrous Honda!" he exclaimed, and stuck his head out of the window.

"I'm not sure how fresh that air is...maybe you should wait until we get off the highway."

"Tis the air of freedom," Boromir said, his eyes now closed. The wind blew his hair about in dancing bursts. How real it seemed to him that he was back in Gondor, travelling upon a lightening steed, free and careless of crime or punishment.

* * *

**_A/N: Please review!!!_**


	8. An Education

**Chapter Seven**

"**An Education"**

The car pulled into Morgan's driveway, and then stopped. Turning off the ignition, Morgan turned to look at Boromir. His face was that of pure gladness.

"The snow has melted," Boromir observed, still sitting in the car, making no motion to leave.

"The spring thaw," Morgan explained, looking at the soggy turf herself. "I hate this time of year. So muddy."

"Do you? Oh, it is my favourite. The worst is over, and one can now enjoy all that life has to offer."

Morgan looked at him. She wasn't sure if he was referring to winter or the sanitarium, but knew it didn't really matter. Opening her door she said, "C'mon. I'll show you around inside; you never really got to see it last time."

Boromir got out and followed her. His hands were free, as he was possession-less, and strode through the open doorway. There he met Moglie who jumped up excitedly, licking his face. "You recognize me, do you?" Boromir asked the black dog, and patted his head. "Aye, it is good to see you, too."

Morgan shut the door, and an awkward silence ensued. "Well, what would you like to see first? I want you to feel comfortable here."

"I thank you, Morgan. You are a good woman. I swear I shall not intrude upon your kindness long..."

"Where are you going?"

"Why, home! This land is not for one of my kind. When I was imprisoned, I swore that should I ever escape, I would return to Gondor."

"So, you don't really have amnesia. 'Boromir' wasn't just a name you gave yourself because you couldn't remember, was it? You really believe you are from another world..."

"I do not believe it, Morgan. I know it! If you could but see into my memory, know the things that I know, you would not doubt me. I have now seen the life you live, the world in which you live in, and it is not the same as mine own. I have no sanity in this land, and there are certainly none here believe me to have any. Yet, I do not lie."

"Not even to Dr. Larkin?" Morgan asked, knowing he was full of shit. Boromir's temper heated within a flash, but even then, she wasn't afraid.

"If I were to tell you what I was forced to endure in that place, you would not reproach me as you do now! Never would I condemn a dog to such an existence. There was no other way, Morgan! Never would they have let me go; I know it! I would have done anything, said anything to escape that misery, and I will not beg pardon for it, not even from you!"

Morgan was about to speak, but promptly shut her mouth. Sane or not, there could be no denying that he had truly suffered at the mental hospital, and nothing appeared to have changed. He was still the same old Boromir, with the same old ideas. It had all been for nothing.

She wanted to believe him, but 'reason, logic, truth', the battle-cry words her college philosophy professor had drummed into his students' heads continued to resound.

And yet, Boromir wasn't psychotic. Not technically, anyway. He had been tested and retested. Dr. Larkin told her so. So, if he wasn't crazy, was he telling the truth? 'Reason, logic, truth'; she couldn't get the words out of her head. What was she to believe?

Boromir, meanwhile, had been eyeing her in a state of abstruseness. She appeared to be struggling against some inner turmoil, but when at last she looked at him, her face had not changed, and he could only assume that whatever unrest had been in her mind was not appeased.

"Well, while you're here," Morgan said, brushing off their previous conversation as if she were swatting a fly, "you may as well know how to get about. So, first things first: the kitchen." She led him into the kitchen, and Boromir gazed at the intimidating artifices surrounding him. "Stove, dishwasher, fridge..." she said, pointing as she spoke, but Boromir appeared lost. He's either up for an Oscar, Morgan thought, or else he really is clueless.

"Let's start with something easy. The fridge," she said, opening the door. Boromir gaped and gazed at its various contents. "This is where we keep things that can go bad. Milk, cheese, butter, you get the idea. Just make sure you put it back in right away, and that the door shuts. Got it?"

"I believe so," he said, obviously struggling to remember every instruction.

"Now, up here is the freezer," she said, opening the smaller door. "This is where all the frozen food is kept."

"Why, it feels as though winter were in there!" Boromir said, reaching his hand in.

"Yes, it's cold, so make sure the door stays shut, alright?"

"Aye."

"Now, the dishwasher. This is where we put the dirty dishes, but don't put the pots or pans in there." She stopped a moment. "Do you know what pots and pans are?"

Boromir looked incredulously at her. "I am not such a dullard! Aye, I know of pots and pans!"

"Alright! No offence! Just asking...I'll teach you later how it works, alright? Just fill it with your dishes, and I'll turn it on."

Aye," Boromir said, eyeing the machine's various knobs and buttons with wariness. "And what does it do?"

"It...washes the dishes."

"No! Truly?!"

"Ok, next is the electric stove. Now, I'm going to ask that you be careful," Morgan said seriously, which caused Boromir to unwittingly take a step back. "We don't want a fire."

"We _**do not**_ want a fire?"

"No! No fires!"

"Then, how is one to cook anything?"

"It will cook. The element will get really hot. We just don't want an open flame. Open flame is _**bad**_." She sighed. It was worse than explaining to a child. "Look," Morgan continued. "To work the oven, you press this button to turn on the oven, and then this button to turn the temperature up; this button to turn it down. This button turns the oven off. Alright?"

Boromir had been paying close attention, but so many buttons for so many reasons only confused him. He shook his head. "Nay, I'll not be using that device!"

"Well, if you have to cook, use either the wood stove or the barbeque outside." Boromir nodded his head at that. Worried that she would only offend his sensibilities again, Morgan had to assume that he would know how to make a fire. "Should I even bother showing you the microwave?" she said, pointing at it. "It also has buttons..."

"Nay, I think not," Boromir said, looking at it with much misgiving.

"Alrighty, then. I think that's it. Oh, well, there's the washer and dryer." Boromir looked at her blankly, hoping she would explain in greater detail. "For your clothes..." she continued. "They wash and...dry your clothes..."

"But, I have no other clothes."

"Oh, right!" Morgan said, looking down at his outfit, the same clothes he was wearing when she found him all those months ago.

"I wore a horrible spotted suit at the hospital. Upon my leaving, they returned these to me."

"Right. Yeah, we maybe should get you some more. May help you blend in..."

Morgan took a moment, thinking about everything that she owned that Boromir wouldn't know how to use. The TV and DVD player? Somehow she doubted that he'd be that interested in watching her 7 seasons of _Buffy the Vampire Slayer_. Her computer? Who would he have to email? Camera? No way! He'd just see the half naked pictures of himself, and think her a pervert. "I think that's it. Dinner's not going to be for another hour or so. What would you like to do in the meanwhile?"

"If you do not terribly mind, I wish to have a bath. I did not care for the rain-like devices used at the hospital," Boromir said, blushing slightly.

"Of course," she said, leading him to the bathroom. A deep soaker tub sat to their right, surrounded in crisp, white tile, and pale green paint on the walls.

These bathing rooms seem strange, Boromir thought, quite unlike the washing rooms of Gondor. There, one had to sit in a cold metal basin, and have a servant bring an endless supply of hot water if one wanted to get clean.

"There are towels in that cupboard, and there's the shampoo and conditioner. For your hair..." Morgan added, thinking that more detail was better than not enough. She then closed the door, and left Boromir to enjoy his bath.

She thought women took long baths, but it was nothing to Boromir! He seemed fascinated with the faucet, and refilled the tub after twenty minutes. She could hear him splashing about, humming some unknown tune.

"Would you like a clean t-shirt?" she said through the closed bathroom door. "I don't have any pants that would fit you, but I have some too big for me t-shirts."

"Aye, I thank you," Boromir replied, yet wondered at wearing a shirt meant for a maiden.

Dinner in the oven and Boromir in the bath, Morgan began to rummage through her wardrobe, trying to find a shirt that would fit a big man like Boromir.

At last, she could hear the vacuum of the water being sucked down the drain, and knew that Boromir had finished his bath. He strode out of the steamy bathroom shirtless, dressed only in his black pants; his hair wet and sexy.

Damn, she thought, and could not help but smile in a completely girlish way. The sight was nothing new to her, as she had seen more of his manly figure when she was nursing him back to health. But now, slightly damp and half naked, he looked better than Jude Law in a towel.

"Um, here's the shirt," she said, handing over a black T with a picture of _Guns and Roses_ on the front. Boromir examined it a moment, and confirming that it was not overtly feminine, he accepted it.

"What does it signify?" Boromir said before climbing into the shirt. It was old, and well shrunk. Morgan would have been swimming in it, but as it was, it was snug on Boromir, just enough to show of his goods.

"Oh, just a band from my younger days. Are you hungry? Dinner's almost ready."

They dug into the cheesy pasta bake that Morgan had made. She couldn't be confident that Boromir liked it. He did comment that it was better than the hospital food that he had been receiving, yet, Morgan wasn't sure how much of a compliment that was.

"Tell me about your family," Morgan said, crackling open a bottle of white wine. "What's your home life like?"

Boromir smiled at first, and then it faded. "Like any others, I would assume."

"No, no. You're the only guy I know from Gondor. C'mon! What's it like? What is your brother like?"

"My brother..." Boromir faltered. "He is a good man. A soldier, like myself. He is talented with words and learned in folklore. While I am here, he will have a very difficult time, I think. You see, our father favours me."

"Oh!" Morgan said, her dislike immediate. "That's not right! You're both his sons. What's your brother's name? Faramir? Well, you said he's good, right? What makes you the favourite?"

"I know not. First born, perhaps. Maybe that I am a stronger soldier than he; I know not the reason. All that I know is that they must think me dead, and poor Faramir will have to suffer for it."

Seeing that all this talk was bringing Boromir down, Morgan smiled and said, "Change of subject! What do you do in Gondor after dinner to pass the time?"

"Tell stories, sing songs, drink ale..."

"Well, we have the ale. How about a movie? Have you ever seen one?"

They moved from the kitchen to the living room, and Boromir sat down on the long bench. "The moving picture box? Aye, I saw one at the hospital. A most strange device. At first, I thought there were little people inside, and then I recalled what you had told me of the music box in your Honda. I did not care much for what I had seen..."

"What was it?"

"I know not. It seemed too confusing. A ship, it seemed, though not a ship on the seas, but in the heavens! And strange creatures, it was very bizarre..."

"Star Trek. Don't worry. I won't show you anything beyond your comfort zone." Morgan surveyed the shelves of movies. 'Jaws'? It might make him reconsider that boat trip he was planning... 'Harry Potter'? Too many modern things, even for muggles... 'Braveheart'? Perfect!

"I think you'll like this one, Boromir," Morgan said, taking the disk out of the case and setting into the DVD player. "It's a story that took place a long time ago, when things were...simpler. Well, sort of simpler."

When the film was finally done and Mel Gibson had spouted, "Freedom" for the umpteenth time, Morgan wished that she had rethought her selection. Boromir didn't seem disturbed by the 'little people in the moving picture box' anymore. He seemed familiar with their clothes (although he thought it funny that all the men wore 'frocks'), and appeared comfortable with their rustic way of life. It was the storyline that impassioned him. When the evil King Edward declared Prima Nocta, and that all Scottish brides would be raped on their wedding night, Morgan was startled when Boromir jumped up, shouting at the screen, "Dastardly villain! I shall run you through before one maiden is harmed!" On several occasions, Morgan's attempts to pacify the distressed Boromir proved fruitless.

During the lovemaking scenes, Boromir turned quite pink, and clasped his large hand over Morgan's eyes, and averted his own. Despite her protests, Boromir declared, "That is not for a maiden's eyes..."

The movie finally over, Boromir growled, "That coward! That villain! I shall kill him..."

"Don't stress on it, Boromir. He's dead."

"Dead, indeed?"

"Looong dead. By, like, seven hundred years, or something. Don't worry. They abolished laws like that a long time ago. No one needs to be killed."

Boromir nodded, and once again grew calm. Morgan made the mental note to be very picky of the movies she'd show him from now on. _Rob Roy_ was _**definitely**_ out.

"I hope you do not think me discourteous, Morgan, but my day has been a long one. Would you think me impudent if I retired for the night?"

"No, not at all. Go and rest up. I'll see you in the morning."

Boromir took a few steps, and then turned back to face her, his face gentle and pensive. "I wish I..." He paused, searching for the correct words. Such phrases did not come easily to his lips. "You know not what tormented thoughts overpowered me when I was taken that day. My greatest fear was that they had captured you as well. I lived those months imagining you harrowed, and tortured. Witless as I am with words, I cannot tell you how relieved I am to find you thus. Thank you once more for coming to my aid," he said before briskly escaping to the sanctuary of his bedchamber.

* * *

**_A/N: Please review!!!_**


	9. The Dinner Party

**Chapter Eight**

"**The Dinner Party"**

Boromir had now been Morgan's houseguest for nearly two weeks, and both Wyatt and Lakeesha had been badgering her to meet the new adoption to the family. Finally submitting to the realization that she couldn't hold them off forever, she invited them to a small dinner party, and looked forward to it with a dread that only the condemned would understand. Wyatt was her brother, and Lakeesha, her best friend. She knew they'd support her no matter what. And yet, she just couldn't stand the thought of them criticizing her decision.

She ran about the house like a madwoman; she had left the tidy-up far too late! Flitting from room to room, she fluffed up the pillows, set the table, and gave the floor a good vacuum, despite Boromir's near attack on the "evil noisemaker".

At first she had not noticed Boromir standing in the bathroom. Yet, something gleaming had caught her eye, and she stepped back to get a better look, and screamed. Boromir stood in front of the vanity mirror, a giant knife poised at his throat. Morgan's shriek nearly caused him to slit his own gullet, but he steadied his startled hand, and gazed upon her with an alarmed fierceness. Before he had opportunity to question her motive, she said, "Boromir, don't do it!!!"

"Morgan," he said, attempting to control his temperament, "one does not screech around a man yielding a sharp blade! I nearly sliced open my own throat!"

Morgan paused. "Isn't that what you were trying to do?"

"They may have deemed me mad, but I assure you, I am not!"

"Then what the hell were you doing with that gigantoid knife? Shaving?!"

"Aye, that was my intent before you began to shriek," Boromir said, rubbing his scruffy neck.

"What?! You can't shave with a knife!"

"Why not? How else is one to shave?"

Morgan breathed in deeply, and told herself that it was just another bit of modernizing that Boromir needed. She opened the vanity drawer, pulled out a pretty pink razor, and handed it to him triumphantly.

"What is this?" he said staring at it with misgiving. The colour seemed offensive, and further, it had a floral design all over it.

"A razor. It's about time you started to use one. Whatever did you use at the hospital?"

"A dreadful pulsating device that hummed. I did not like it..."

"Well, I promise you, this will be the closest shave you'll ever have had. Your face will feel like a baby's bottom."

Boromir eyed her with incredulity. And they thought _**me**_ mad, he pondered to himself.

She sensed his cynicism and quickly added, "Okay, maybe not the best analogy..."

Once Boromir was lathered up with lavender scented foam, Morgan showed him the delicacies of shaving one's face. Twice cutting himself and cursing the vile blade, Boromir at last cast it down, declaring, "I shall not wield such a fiendish artifice!"

"Alright, but one side of your face will look different from the other. You'll look lopsided," she warned.

Besides being uncertain of what 'lopsided' meant, Boromir begrudgingly picked up the razor and, with greater care, proceeded to shave the rest of his face. Morgan had commented that it was easier to shave one's face than one's leg, and Boromir shook his head at the thought. None, not even Morgan, could coerce him into shaving his legs!

"You look good in a goatee," Morgan said, looking at his neat and tidy face.

"Of what did you call me?" Boromir said, wiping the excess foam off with a damp cloth.

"Never mind. Okay, hurry up. It's nearly 4:30."

Twenty frenzied minutes passed, and at last the doorbell rang. Wyatt was the first to arrive, carrying a bouquet of flowers for the hostess.

"Good to see you! Thank you for the flowers," Morgan said, taking them in hand, and hugging her brother.

"Well, those were actually for Boromir, but if you insist..."

"Knock it off. How was your drive?"

"Not bad for a Friday, actually," Wyatt said, hanging up his coat, and giving a playful pat to a panting Moglie. "So? Where is he?"

"Just getting changed. I've been meaning to take him shopping for some more clothes. He only has one pair of pants, and whatever t-shirts that I've dug out that could fit him."

"He's wearing your shirts?" Wyatt said, his face cringing. "Hey, now that I think of it, I'm not sure I like the shirt I'm wearing. Do you think I could borrow one of yours, maybe in pink with some lace?"

"Shut up!" Morgan said, giving him a sisterly shove.

"He's not wearing your underwear too, is he?"

"Enough, already! He's coming!"

Boromir strode into the hallway. He felt awkward and out of place. Morgan had been insistent on their guests being kind people who would understand his inexpertness on their rituals or customs.

"Pleased to meet you, Boromir," Wyatt said, friendly-like. "I'm Morgan's older brother, Wyatt." He could not help but smirk at the shirt Morgan had chosen for him. It was white with black lettering across the front stating, 'Buffy & Angel Forever'.

Boromir held out his arm, yet oddly, Wyatt grasped his hand and shook it. Boromir stared down at it, surmising it to be another unusual custom. "I am most honoured."

An awkward silence ensued while Morgan placed Wyatt's flowers in a vase, until suddenly, the door bell rang again. Morgan hurried off, thankful for her excuse to escape. Lakeesha entered, loud and laughing, apologizing for being late. She handed Morgan a bottle of wine, and spotted Boromir. "Mmmm, Girl! He's some fine piece of man!" she whispered.

"Well for God's sake, don't embarrass him, or me, please!" Morgan begged while hanging up Lakeesha's coat.

Lakeesha smiled, not taking her eyes off Boromir. "Oh, never fear. I will be the picture of propriety!"

She marched up to Boromir and held her hand out to him, batting her bedroom eyes. "And you must be the Boromir I have heard so much of."

Boromir's disconcerted eyes searched for Morgan's guidance, but she was nowhere to be found. Smiling, he clumsily took Lakeesha's hand, and shook it as Wyatt had done. "I am most honoured."

Lakeesha had expected he might've kissed it, but his soft words reprieved him, and she smiled again. "Ooh! Now, here's a man who knows how to romance a girl!"

Morgan uncorked the bottle of wine with a loud 'pop', breaking the awkward scene. "Wine, anybody?"

They relaxed around the kitchen table, their coffee and half eaten dessert in front of them. Boromir concluded that Morgan had been correct in her descriptions of her brother and friend. They were both friendly and understanding of his plight. He was not altogether sure if they, too, deemed him mad, but he was learning not to be troubled by it. Morgan believed him, and that was enough.

"So what is Gondor like?" Lakeesha asked, her eyes wide with interest, yet free of malice.

Boromir thought a moment. How was one to surmise the greatest land in Arda? "It is a vast country, notable for two of the best cities in Middle Earth. One, Osgiliath, has sadly become over-run, and Minas Tirith, my home."

"And your father," Wyatt said, "is the king?"

"Nay, the Steward of Gondor," Boromir corrected.

"What's that mean? He's the king's advisor?" Lakeesha asked.

"Nay, for my country has been in want of a king for a thousand years. It is my father's duty to govern the realm until a king returns. That duty would have fallen onto me upon my father's death, yet I know now I shall never hold that position."

"Why? Because you're...not in Middle Earth anymore?" Wyatt asked, trying to be kind to the crazy man.

"Nay, for I have met the man who will be king."

"But how come your father didn't just declare himself king if there hasn't been one in a thousand years?" Wyatt asked.

Boromir's eyes widened. "T'would be the most unthinkable sacrilege! Never would any man of honour have done so. I may come from a noble house, yet it is known that the kingship in not our birthright. We Gondorians recognize that we do not take that which is not ours!" A fleeting memory of him trying to take the Ring from Frodo caught Boromir's thoughts. Could Frodo ever forgive him?

Morgan and Wyatt exchanged glances. Wyatt appeared confused by Boromir's integrity, and observed the man sitting next to him with a new sense of puzzlement.

"So," Lakeesha said smiling, "if your daddy was Steward, what, Boromir, were you? Someone with lots of leadership, I think..."

"I am High Warden of the White Tower of Ecthelion, and Captain-General of my father's armies."

"A soldier? Really?" Wyatt's interest had peaked. "What do you fight with?"

"Swords mostly. One must know how to manage a bow..." Boromir said, but was promptly cut short by Wyatt's exclaim.

"Swords? Really?" Wyatt said, now insuppressibly giddy. "Can you show me?"

"I would gladly, but I fear I have none."

"Oh!" Morgan blurted, recalling a memory. "Yes! Wait a minute!" She jumped up from the table, and ran out the door.

The three were left to blink witlessly at each other, questioning what Morgan might be up to.

Morgan ran back in, a cumbersome bundle in her arms. Kicking the door shut, she laid her parcel upon the counter top, and all rose to come and see her discovery.

Boromir gasped upon seeing the treasure trove! There were several orc blades, dirty and crude, as well as the broken hilt of his own sword. The weapons were swathed in a green cloth, upon which glittered a leafy jewel.

Boromir unpinned the elven brooch, and stroked it affectionately, as though he were seeing an old friend.

"That's beautiful," Morgan said examining the complexities of so fine a pin in which seemed smaller in his mighty hand. "Where did you get it?"

"A gift from the Lady Galadriel," Boromir said, not taking his captive eyes off his newfound treasure. He had thought it long lost. "This and the golden belt which you forbid me to wear."

"The belt's gaudy, Boromir," Morgan explained. "I'm sorry."

"It can't be that bad!" Lakeesha said. "What's wrong with a little bling, anyway? What's it made out of, Boromir?"

"Gold."

"That's the colour," Morgan said, "but what's it made out of?"

Boromir blinked. "Gold, as I have stated."

"But not _**real**_ gold," Wyatt said.

"What other gold is there?" Boromir said, and looked curiously at the gaggle of bewildered faces staring at him in astonishment.

Not a minute later, the golden belt was retrieved and being closely examined by Lakeesha. "I'll know if it's real gold. I once had this boyfriend, and he tried to pawn some cheap gold dip job off on me, but uh uh!" she said, shaking her head. "I knew that crap wasn't real! I'll tell you, I set that boy loose so fast, he can keep that junk! A boy worth keeping gives you something worth keeping, know what I mean?"

Wyatt picked up one of the swords, and held its heavy grip in awe. "Wow! I didn't think you'd really been serious! So, you know how to fight with these?"

"Aye, yet these are crude and not as finely crafted as the blades of my people. This," he said, picking up his own sword hilt, it's blade broken as Narsil had been, "was mine. A gift from my father upon my becoming a man."

Yet Wyatt did not hear, he was too immersed in his own fantasy to remark on Boromir's tale of woe. "Say, Boromir, do you think you can show me some moves? With this?" he said, grinning excitedly.

"Wyatt's a _Star Wars_ junkie," Morgan explained. "Major Jedi Knight fetish."

"You're one to talk, making poor Boromir here wear your Buffy shirt!" Wyatt fought back.

"That's different," Morgan said quietly, as Boromir questioningly looked down at his shirt.

"I know not what _Star Wars_ is, but I should be happy to teach you the basics of sword fighting," Boromir said, picking up a lengthy Orc blade.

"Whoa, hold it right there!" Wyatt said, sword still in hand. "You've never seen _Star Wars_?! Morgan! You haven't shown him _Star Wars_? I'm not talking about the stupid 'extra scenes' versions, or the Jar Jar ones. You haven't even shown him the originals?!" he asked incredulously.

Morgan shrugged her shoulders. "I thought it'd be a stretch for him."

"Do you have a copy?" Wyatt said, stepping into her living room and staring at the wall of DVDs.

"Of course," Morgan replied dryly. "You gave it to me for Christmas."

Boromir had followed Wyatt into the living room, and Wyatt turned to him, elated and said, "I won't show you everything tonight, as there's three movies, and we'd be up really late. Not unless you want to, anyway. For now, I just _**have**_ to show you this one scene. It's the best!"

Morgan shook her head as Wyatt loaded the DVD player and selected the scene desired.

"Okay," Wyatt said, leading Boromir to have a seat on the couch. "Now, I don't want to give away too many details, but the scene you're about to see is by far the best sword fight ever captured on film! Now, there are these two masters..."

"Masters of what?" Boromir asked. "Swords?"

"No," Wyatt said, straining to describe the storyline effectively. "They're Jedi." Boromir looked blankly at him. Wyatt realized he was going to have to try a lot harder. "You see, there's this thing called the Force..."

"Ha!" Morgan said, amused at her nerdy brother's ineptitude. "I can't wait to see how you're going to explain this one!"

Wyatt gave Morgan a dirty look before turning back to Boromir. "The Force is an invisible...well, _**force**_ that binds all living things together."

Boromir nodded his head, thinking it sounded Elvish.

Wyatt continued, elated on Boromir's apparent understanding. "So, there's this bad Master, and this good Master. And, well, this is their fight."

Boromir nodded again, and with great delight, Wyatt pressed play.

"Morgan?" Lakeesha whispered. "What do you think? Can I pull off this bling, or what?!"

Morgan looked over to see Boromir's golden belt around Lakeesha's waist. It actually looked good. Very retro. "You can pull it off," Morgan said, much to Lakeesha's satisfaction. "But, if it really is made of gold, there's no way Boromir'll let you borrow it."

"Just trying it on for size," Lakeesha said, staring at her reflection in the hall mirror.

Meanwhile, Boromir had felt captivated by the scene unfolding. He thought the clothing worn by the people laughable, but had not the heart to injure Wyatt's evident love for the story. The swords of light were, Boromir acknowledged, truly impressive. He would have to ask if he could acquire one before returning to Gondor.

Wyatt kept glancing back and forth between Boromir and his most beloved movie, anxious for Boromir to love it as much as he did. When it was over and the Millennium Falcon was flying away into the space abyss, Wyatt pressed pause, and said, "Well?!"

At first, Boromir knew not what to say. All eyes were upon him, and he did not wish to insult. "As a story, it seemed very...unique."

"And the swordplay?" Wyatt asked.

Boromir was a little more reluctant on that head. "I believe they require a little more training... Come! I will show you!"

Wyatt jumped up, excited at the prospect of fulfilling a boyhood dream.

"Now," Boromir began when they each had a sword in their hands, "this blade is sharp enough to cut through bone, so I require your caution. Learning the intricacies of sword fighting is a long and laborious one. However, since this is your first moment grasping a sword, I will teach you merely the principles. I have taught many fledgling fighters. Stand straight; stand tall. Feet apart, with both hands on your sword."

"Why?" Wyatt said, carefully mimicking Boromir's every instruction.

"Two arms are stronger than one. Now, hold your blade like a shield, protecting you from my blow."

Morgan and Lakeesha watched as Boromir struck on with his sword, causing a loud 'cling' when the swords struck each other. Further instructions were made, and soon, Wyatt was swinging his sword at Boromir.

Lakeesha turned to Morgan, an odd expression upon her face. "Let's talk turkey, shall we? I mean, I know it's impossible, and utterly ridiculous, but where in the name of Jerome did he learn how to do that?"

Morgan had been wondering the same thing. Unlike Wyatt's movements, Boromir's had been perfect, like a dancer's. She could tell he was moving with effortless fluidity, and yet, holding back the sleeping animal within him.

Nearly half an hour passed before Wyatt held up his tired arm in surrender. "Whoa! No more. You're an outstanding teacher, Boromir," he said breathlessly, sweat dripping down his face. He held out his hand, and this time, Boromir gladly shook it.

"Think naught of it. I'm happy to show you," Boromir said, wiping his own brow with his arm.

"No, really!" Wyatt said, falling into a chair. "You should teach this stuff! No one knows it. It's a lost art! I'm sure _**loads**_ of guys would like to learn it. You could make lots of money - tons!"

Boromir smiled awkwardly at the compliments, but was confused. "You said 'lost art'. Why is it lost?"

"Oh, no one's fought with a sword, Boromir, in about a hundred and fifty years, since the Civil War. And even then, I think they were mainly for when they ran out of bullets. Now, real sword fighting, you're going back five hundred years, I would think. The only time you see sword fighting anymore is in the movies."

"Another drink, anybody?" Morgan offered.

"Not for me," Wyatt said, rising and striding over to Morgan, "I'd better get going. It's my weekend to get the kids, and Cheryl always drops them off at the crack of dawn, so I'd better go."

"Yeah, me too," Lakeesha said, leaving the gold belt on the counter with a longing glance. "I'm on a ten hour shift tomorrow." The two guests made their goodbyes, and the door was finally shut.

Boromir watched as Morgan began to clear the table, filling the strange dish washing device. "I think that went well," Morgan said, smiling at Boromir, and scraping the plates into the garbage. "You were a hit!"

"I know not what you imply."

"I mean, they liked you."

"Ah," Boromir said, picking up the Elvish leaf and feeling the weight of it in his hands. "Yet, I think they thought me mad. Are these effects not proof enough that I am who I say I am?"

"For me, yes. For them, maybe. For the rest of society..." Morgan reluctantly shook her head, no. "People believe what they want to believe, Boromir. Even about themselves. People nowadays don't want the truth about anything. The world's just too scary a place. So, we build walls to close in our society, and make excuses to shelter our fantasy-like beliefs in order to make us feel safe. But the truth is, we're not safe, and we never will be, no matter what we do."

Boromir stared at her. She was no longer smiling. How strange, he thought, that he should come from a region so distant and unobserved by this dissimilar civilization, and yet, here breeds the same fear and hopelessness that runs rampant in his own land and people. "And yet, you are not afraid," he declared.

"Who, me?" Morgan said, now smiling again. "I'm afraid of everything! You should see me when I kill a spider... No, I'm no soldier like you. I'll bet you're not afraid of anything."

"I am a man," Boromir said, stepping close to her, "built of blood, and flesh, and feelings; I was not carved out of stone. I can be strong when there is need of it, as there is need for courage in battle. Yet, my heart is not frozen like the river during winter's frigid rule. I can fight and die like any other man. I fear... I blame... I, too, can crumble under the weight of despair when everything seems lost and all for naught. I am a man, Morgan. Soldier also, and yet, a man."

Morgan didn't know what to say. He stood there, awaiting a response. She gazed up into his eyes, and then quickly reached up on tiptoe, kissing him. It was a brief kiss, their lips had barely touched, and their eyes had barely shut before it had ended. Blushing, and walking away, Morgan simply said, "Goodnight," before scurrying off to the sanctuary of her bedroom.

* * *

**_A/N: Please review!!!_**


	10. Unicorny

**Chapter Nine**

"**Unicorny"**

Boromir may have desired newer clothes, but it was with the greatest apprehension that he returned to Portland. They passed the mental hospital, and he could not suppress a shudder as he turned away from its imaginary grasping fingers. An inane fear that Morgan was abandoning him there tormented him, until they had finally passed its bricks, mortar and barred windows.

Morgan had noticed his distress, and made a mental note to take a different route home.

"Are we to go to the village market?" Boromir asked.

"It's kind of a market, but a really big one." They were on their way to the Maine Mall. With 140 stores, they were bound to find something that Boromir would like, and help him fit in. He had wanted to dress as inconspicuously as possible on the shopping trip, so as not to draw unwanted "madhouse guards" to him, and so Morgan had recommended his black pants, and an old "I'm Bart Simpson. Who the hell are you?" t-shirt.

"Of what do you intend to trade?" he asked, gazing around inside the Honda. "We have no livestock with us."

"Livestock?! No. Even if I did have chickens, I doubt anyone would trade them for clothes. Don't worry about it. I've got you covered."

Boromir knew not what she meant, but knew that Morgan was more familiar with the bartering habits of so strange a place as to not make him worry.

They stepped into the mall, and Boromir stood aghast at all that his eyes beheld. Swarms of people, mirror-like floors, and stores farther than his eyes could see surrounded him. An exotic aroma wafted through the air, and Boromir could not help but allow his mouth to water at the sweet, tempting scent.

Morgan saw him sniffing the air and said, "Want a Cinnabon? They go right to your thighs, but they're worth it!"

"Perhaps later," Boromir said.

"Right then. Clothes!"

They progressed slowly into the mall as Boromir constantly wished to stop and examine all the wonders to observe.

"C'mon!" Morgan said, urging him on. If he was to stop and stare at every store they passed, they would be there forever. Boldly taking his hand, she pulled his arm toward American Eagle.

At first he started at her soft touch and firm grasp, yet he did not shy away. It was apparent that those in this land often held hands, and so he was not so embarrassed to show such an outward display of affection.

They stepped into the store, and Boromir was astounded by the amount and variety of clothing so readily available. He turned to Morgan and said, "I assumed we were procuring cloth for you to make me some new clothes."

"I don't know how to sew, Boromir! No, no. It's much better to buy ready-made clothes. No one has time to make their own anymore. I'm not Martha Stewart!"

Thinking it wiser not to inquire who this Martha person was, he merely followed her to piles upon piles of garments.

"What do you think of this?" Morgan said, holding up a hoodie.

Boromir surveyed it with dislike. "It is rather worn and stained," he said, feeling the cloth.

Resisting the painful urge to smile, Morgan replied, "No, it's new. It's just made to look old."

"Ah," Boromir replied, thinking it beyond ridiculous to

wear out perfectly good cloth before one even has the chance to use it! "I think not."

"Alright. Let's check out the pants."

Morgan found the jeans, and smiled, knowing that everyone needs a good pair of jeans. "Ooh! How about these?"

Boromir eyed the pants with better favour, yet they still appeared used and worn. "The colour is not even."

"That's the style. Everybody's wearing them. Trust me. You'll fit in."

"Very well," Boromir said, relenting.

"I guess you don't know what size you are?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Your waist. I should have measured you before we left... Let's try you in a..." she said, examining his midriff to the point which made his cheeks turn pink, "...34. We can go up or down from there." Morgan handed him a darker stain, and a medium blue stain, each bootcut. Directing him to the change rooms, she waited outside the door in anticipation.

Several minutes passed, and at last, Morgan couldn't wait anymore. "Well? How's it going in there?"

"They feel...fair enough."

"Can I come in?"

"What?!"

"Are you in them? Can I see?"

Boromir knew not how to reply, and his face grew hot. This was all too strange from the way he had ever been fitted for clothing. "Very well," he said, clasping the button upon his waist and unlocking the door.

Morgan stepped in, completely unaware of the faux pas she was causing. "They look great!" she said. "How do they feel? Are you comfortable?"

Boromir was far from comfortable, yet it had nothing to do with his pants. "They are well enough."

"Have you tried on this pair?" she said, pointing to the darker pair.

"Nay."

"Alright. Try them on, too, and I'll grab some more stuff for you to try on. Okay?"

Boromir nodded, and Morgan left in search of t-shirts.

Polos? No way, she thought, giving them a quick dismissal. Boromir wasn't a 'polo' kind of guy. She began to rummage through the piles of t-shirts, already in disarray from impatient shoppers, and found four that she thought were at least wearable.

Having tried on and accepted all that Morgan chose, they now waited in a strange line, the pile of chosen clothes on the counter in front of them. "What do we wait for, Morgan?"

"We still have to pay."

Boromir blinked. As son of the Steward of Gondor, he had never been required to pay for anything he had desired. "I am sorry, Morgan. I do not have any gold."

It was Morgan's turn to blink disbelievingly. "We don't pay with gold," she whispered so that no one else would hear. "Don't worry. I'll take care of it."

Their turn had come, and the checkout girl eyed them with an incredulous gaze. Here was a girl, buying her boyfriend clothing?!

Morgan's bank account now $200 lighter, they walked out of the store, and Boromir sighed. "Are we to return home, now?"

Morgan smiled. "We're just getting started! C'mon!" she said, pulling him further into the mall abyss.

Boromir felt more at ease in Eddie Bauer. The clothing seemed more crisp to him, and finely cut. Morgan also noticed the finer price tags, too. However, she knew he was starting from scratch, so it was a bullet worth biting.

He effortlessly chose a red jacket, brown oxford shoes, black leather shoes for evenings, and two button down shirts. Smiling, he turned to Morgan and said, "Would these aid in my concealment?"

"They're perfect," Morgan replied, again willingly picking up the tab.

Bags in hand, they left the store, and it was now Boromir who reached out, grasping Morgan's hand. He would not dare look at her, lest she tease his tender heart. Yet, she said naught, and they strode silently onward.

Each had been deep in thought. So much so, they bumped right into a little person who had a shaved head and braided goatee. "Watch where you're going!" the little man said fiercely, and Morgan was quick to apologize. Boromir merely gaped at the strange Dwarf, and turned to Morgan. "I had not thought you had Dwarves here!"

Without warning, the little person ruthlessly kicked Boromir in the shin, causing him to shout out in pain.

"I'm _**so sorry**_!" Morgan said to the stranger. "He's not from around here. Honestly, he doesn't know any better," she expressed, red-faced and mortified.

The little man eyed Boromir disdainfully, and then walked away in a huff.

Boromir gazed at Morgan, saying, "Why should you beg pardon from him, when _**I**_ am the one attacked?" However, he took an instinctive step backward when she glared at him with a countenance of pure fury.

"I've never been so embarrassed! What are you doing calling a perfect stranger insulting names?!"

Boromir could not help but be much taken aback. "I had no intention of causing insult. Is that not the name of his race?"

Morgan shuddered again, and just said, "Okay, just shut up. We can't talk about it here. You'll get beat up."

She grabbed his hand again, but without the savouring sensation felt before.

So much excitement during the day, Morgan had suggested a quiet evening instead of their usual movie or game of Yahtzee, which Boromir had quickly grown so fond of.

They sat on the couch facing inwardly toward each other, their noses each buried in a book. Moglie whimpered in his sleep on the rug, while Penny sat directly beside Boromir, whom she had quietly adopted as her own.

Boromir turned another page of his small, worn book. Morgan had recommended Shakespeare to him, and he read 'Hamlet' with an enthusiastic thirst. Morgan had been delving deeply into 'The Overactive Imagination of Olivia Joules', but somehow couldn't get into it tonight.

She and Boromir had each been glancing at each other from over their books, until at last, Morgan ruthlessly shoved her bookmark into the binding, and dropped it on the floor with a thud. "Alright. I give up. Tell me about the little people, or...Dwarves," she said, though it felt like a dirty word.

"Do you not call them Dwarves?" Boromir said, placing his book likewise on the floor.

"They don't like it," she said, feeling again as though she were explaining to a child. "It's...not a nice name."

"Oh. It is not so in Middle Earth. They are a race different to us."

"Okay, but it's not like that here. They're not a different race. They're people. We're all just... people and they're just...smaller people. Not different. Or rather...we're all different, but... You get the idea."

Boromir nodded. The Dwarf _**had**_ been oddly hairless, Boromir thought. It was no more a Hobbit than a Dwarf, and so Boromir surmised that such little people must be central to this location of country. "It was not my intention to cause any offence. Not to you, or the...little person."

Instantly softening her demeanor, Morgan said, "No worries. So, you have Dwarves in Gondor?"

"Not in Gondor, for the Dwarves dwell in the mountain halls far in the north. I had thought the little man perhaps a Hobbit, but he did not seem so pleasant as the Hobbits of my friendship."

"What's a Hobbit?"

"No Hobbits in Maine?" Morgan shook her head, so Boromir continued. He could not help but smile, remembering his little friends. "They are a stout-hearted little people, who bring a warmth even on the coldest of days. They can carry such heavy burdens and are not meant for war or battle as they have mirth and light in their hearts. I have known four in my lifetime, and gladly call them friends."

"What do they look like?"

"They appear like children at first glance, curly haired, and short in stature. However, they have a jubilant playfulness, and an endless desire for food that cannot help but cheer one despite the grimmest of hours. You have none here by that nature?"

"No, unfortunately." Morgan shook her head. It was beginning to sound like a fairy tale. "Um, what other people live in Middle Earth?"

"Elves..."

But Boromir was quickly cut short. "Elves?!" Morgan cried. "Don't tell me! They're also little men, with long white beards, and they make toys for good little children?"

Boromir sat horrified. What Legolas would say to hear Morgan's account of the Elves... "Nay. I know not what Elves are in your land, but in mine, they could not be more dissimilar! Elves are...mysterious. Long ago, Men and Elves were once allies, yet it is no more. We are not enemies, but estranged from one another. I have only known one Elf well in my lifetime, and yet, I feel as though I hardly knew him at all."

"What was he like?"

"Tall and thin...graceful and elegant...wise, and cautious. Legolas was an Elf of outstanding ability, yet quiet and inward."

"Tall? Really? Elves are...tall?" Boromir nodded affirmative, and Morgan said, "So, you have Dwarves, Hobbits, and Elves in Middle Earth. Are there any unicorns?" She had not the heart to ask about fairies or leprechauns.

Boromir furrowed his brow. "What are unicorns?"

"No, huh? Never mind. What about trolls?"

"Aye, have you trolls too?"

"Only in Fairy Tales."

"What are Fairy Tales?"

"You know, children's stories about creatures that..." she stopped dead, not being able to say, 'don't really exist.' Yet, Boromir sat waiting. "Uh, you know. Stories about mythical creatures. Dwarves, elves, trolls, goblins..."

"Aye, there are Goblins, too, though they are known to us as Orcs."

"'Kay, I haven't heard of Orcs. Are they bad?"

"They most loathsome beasts ever to be conceived," Boromir said with much wrath. "They run rampant in my land, and with a destructive thirst, kill and destroy everything good in their path. For generations it has been this way. We fight back, only to have them strengthen even more, and slaughter our armies, or burn our villages. Every year there are more and more. The army grows so greatly that we know we cannot hold its forces back much longer. Osgiliath, a city in my country; do you recall? Once noble and beautiful, it now lies beaten and in ruins. My father looks to me to drive back our greatest foe, and I will do it, yet I know I cannot defeat them. More and more shall come. My men die, my people lose hope, and there is no dawn."

Boromir shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Had he remained too long in this wilderness? Weeks have already passed since his release from captivity, and he had not even begun to search for a route back to Middle Earth.

"Boromir, what's wrong?"

Boromir gazed at her, and knew well the reason for his delay. It had been her. Every moment with her had been his joy, his one true happiness. Recalling his failed duty merely reminded him of the hopelessness of his land and people. He had failed them, and whatever for? A lady beyond his measure, who may never grow to love him?

He rose, his face abash, and avoided her gaze. "Morgan, I am sorry. I recollect a duty that was not right to cast aside..."

Morgan stood and quickly seized both of his hands. He was obviously in great distress. He had spoken with so much spirit and heartache. She didn't doubt him anymore. He was telling the truth.

"Boromir, listen to me. I know you're feeling guilty. I know you want to help, but how? We don't even know how you got here. We don't even know where Middle Earth is!"

"It is my duty. I must go back." He closed his eyes, nervously running his fingers through his hair. "I've lingered too long... My father, of what will he say? Osgiliath burns, Minis Tirith is in peril, and yet I delay! Cannot you fathom my torment, Morgan? All will be destroyed if I do not return! Perhaps even _**if**_ I return..."

"Then, what have you been waiting for?"

Boromir looked away, embarrassed. He dared not speak. He dared not even look at her, for she would quickly see through his thin guise and discern his true feeling.

Regardless, she did not have to look into his eyes to know whom he had stayed for. Without another word, she reached out to him, wrapping her arms around his strong back, and lay her head on his mighty chest. He sighed, and could not contend with his heart's desire. Go he must, but he could not refuse his love for her. Enclosing his arms about her, he closed his eyes in an enrapturing embrace.

* * *

_**A/N: Please review!!!**_


	11. Marco Polo

**Chapter Ten**

"**Marco Polo"**

At first, they had scoured the Internet fruitlessly and found nothing but articles about the "middle of the earth". Morgan switched to examining maps, to see if some speck of land somewhere looked like Boromir's home. It had already been several hours of disappointment when Boromir strode back to the computer bearing hot cups of tea, for he had finally overcome his fear of the electric kettle.

"What is that?" he said in astonishment as he placed the mugs on the computer desk.

"This?" Morgan said, pointing to the screen. "It's a map of the world. Or at least, what it would look like flat."

"Is it not flat?" He had never heard of such a thing! He blinked at her in earnest awe, awaiting her wisdom.

Morgan was now used to Boromir's quirks and innocence, and no longer shocked when he appeared surprised at the most trivial of information that she so lightly took for granted. Smiling, she simply said, "Nope. Round like a ball. Well, not perfectly round, but...never mind. The world is round."

Peering at the map, Boromir's heart quivered. It was not like any map he had ever before seen. "Is it so very large?"

"Even larger than you think. Does anything look familiar?"

Despondently, Boromir shook his head, nay.

"Well, what are some land features of Middle Earth? We can work with that. Are there any mountains?"

"Aye. The Misty Mountains, Mount Doom..."

"Oh! That sounds foreboding..."

"It is," Boromir said with all seriousness. He rubbed his temple, trying to remember back to his childhood lessons. "I believe there are mountains in Mirkwood..."

"Can you draw me a map?"

Boromir was ashamed. The sketch he had painfully drawn out appeared nothing like his homeland, and he knew it. It was far too general, and he _**knew**_ the Anduin did not travel so far east! He cast the pencil down in frustrated resignation. "I cannot! This looks nothing like! I was never an artist!"

"Don't worry about it. Why don't you go take a break? I'll study the maps a little bit, and see if I can find something that resembles it."

Boromir strode away, mug in hand, mumbling that horse droppings would be the only thing to resemble what he had drawn.

Reluctantly, Morgan gave up. There was nothing, _**nothing**_ that had the slightest resemblance to Boromir's map, and Morgan had been very liberal in her matching similarities. Several mountain structures in the Himalayas looked similar, as did some mountainous regions in New Zealand, but neither possessed the forests that Boromir had labeled, or the long barren plains nearby. However, even if they _**did**_ match, it still did not explain how Boromir had travelled from Timbuktu to Maine alone on a boat, shot full of arrows.

Morgan shook her head in guilty surrender, and resolutely turned off her nearly overheated computer.

Having to work the following day, Morgan left Boromir to research on his own. Morgan had given him a brief introduction to the computer, and wrote down step-by-step directions, but his manner proved invidious. In the end, he strode away from the wretched machine in a huff, not even knowing how to turn the insufferable thing off!

He resigned himself to a much easier means of study: a book. It was large and heavy, and carried with it much knowledge and history of this land. In his flipping, he could not help but think of Faramir. Had he been here, so knowledgeable in legends and folklore, he would have known the best course. That thought tarried a moment, and Boromir did not enjoy its sensation. Had Faramir come instead of he, it would be him now with Morgan, instead of himself! Gifted with words, and soft in speech, Faramir would have known easily how to woo Morgan's heart, and claimed her for his own. Casting the thoughts and book aside, he ceded himself to taking Moglie for a walk and getting a better look at the lay of the land.

"Any luck?" Morgan said, tossing her keys onto the little table by the door when she had arrived home from work.

"Nay, and that infuriating device was of no use at all!" Boromir said, heart full of venom at the humming computer, which was still waiting to be turned off.

"Never mind," Morgan said, smiling. Obviously, mechanical things and Boromir did not mix. He still had problems with the dishwasher. While Morgan had been at work last week, poor Boromir had the alarming experience of accidently turning it on. Lights began to flash, and a torrent of water began to foam about inside. Frightened and not knowing what to do, he fled from its angry noises, and hoped for the best.

The next day, they rode to town and took advantage of the local public library. They soon exhausted any references of 'Middle Earth', or 'Gondor'; all proved a dead end.

Boromir sat quietly skimming a large tattered book on water currents of the planet, and Morgan closed her own book in disgust. In all their hours of unsuccessful searching, they had come up with zilch. She turned to Boromir, watching him idly turn each page after giving it a brief passing glance. She could not help but smile looking at him. How happy she had been these weeks since taking him back! He was so full of life, boldness and spirit! To hear him speak of Gondor's hardships and sorrows, her own heart had ached too. She was beginning to appreciate what devotion his soldiers would have felt for him, and how much his family must be missing him.

And, what if they did find a way back? The thought immediately sobered her spirits, and she grew distressed. He would leave. He had always said as much, and never spoke of returning. Even if he _**did**_ try to come back, who's to say he could? She felt sorry for his family and people, but not enough to be glad to see the back of him. If he truly loved her, he would stay.

She shook her head, thinking herself an idiot, and quickly wiped away a cheerless tear. Que sera sera, she thought humourlessly to herself. What will be, will be. She loved him too much to be so selfish. If she found any answers to their riddles, never could she, in good conscience, keep it from him.

Reason...logic...truth. Her old philosophy professor's mantra paraded again through her skull, but this time, it had an astounding effect. Perhaps, that was it! Maybe they had been looking in the wrong place all the time! Morgan shot out of her chair, startling Boromir, but not noticing. She made a bee-line for the computer database and typed away. Immediately finding what she was looking for, she scanned the bookshelves and found a treasure trove of information! She knew this was it! Filling her arms with her newfound wealth, she carried them back to the large wooden table, and released them with a blaring thud.

"Of what have you found?" Boromir asked, casting his useless book aside.

"This is it! I can't believe I didn't think of it before! Thank you Professor Hedges!"

Boromir picked up one of the books. "'The Philosophical Probability of Multiple Dimensions?' I barely comprehend a word of it..." he said with a baffled look.

"See," Morgan said proudly, "this answers everything! Well, not quite everything, but a lot! This is why we could never find a land mass similar, or why your civilization is so...different." She was going to say 'primeval', but quickly stopped short.

"I fear I do not follow."

Morgan sat and lowered her voice after receiving a threatening glare from the hawk-like librarian. "Another dimension, or universe. Another world going on with no idea that the other one even exists!"

"And these will explain all to us?" Boromir said, opening up a book, and looking at it with skepticism.

"I hope so."

"Will it say how to return?"

Morgan could not help but be crestfallen despite herself. Boromir was right, though he didn't appear to even know it. Even if these books were right, and they had stumbled upon the answer, there was no possibility of them containing instructions on how to build a Stargate to transport them to la-la-land.

Regardless, Morgan signed them all out.

At first, Boromir and Morgan each chose a book, and read on the couch together. However, Boromir became easily frustrated. Morgan told him not to worry, and that she'd let him know if she learned anything useful.

Feeling idle and useless, he escaped to the outdoors with Moglie. Chopping wood had its merits, he thought. It humbled him to a degree, as any simpleton in Gondor could easily do this duty. There was no valor in it. However, in this complex world, he relished in simple tasks that did not require machines, or incomprehensible knowledge to complete them. Fighting an army was naught compared to fighting his way back to Middle Earth.

Morgan understood. She couldn't think less of him for missing a lifetime's education in modernism. She loved him just the way he was.

His inability to understand terms or philosophies reminded her of a Star Trek Voyager episode in which Leonardo da Vinci asked Captain Janeway to explain something way too complicated, and she said she could no more explain it to him than she could a bird.

Morgan shook her head, waking herself from her delusional tv-inspired thought. If Wyatt knew what affect Star Trek was having on her, he'd never let her live it down.

"But what does it mean?" Boromir asked, biting into his favourite of Morgan's dishes: beef stew with potatoes.

"It's really cool! It spoke of parallel universes right beside each other, and that scientists think these universes are 1 mm apart! That's like, that big," she said, pinching two fingers tightly together. "I looked into this theory some more, and when I Googled it, you wouldn't believe the amount of info out there on it! It gets complicated, I mean, I never took physics in school, but this isn't an insane lead we're on, here. I really believe we've found the answer!"

Boromir could see that Morgan was excited. He was too, deep down, but with every step closer they came to discovering the secret, the farther away he grew from her. What use would it be to love her if he would only have to go? "Does it say how to breech these universes?"

"That's just what I couldn't find out. They think cracks, or holes in time, or something. No one knows when or where they're ever going to strike." This felt like the end of their search, and Morgan couldn't have been more happy. She had tried really hard to do what was right, but it all worked out! They found the answer! They found the reason, and yet, he still couldn't go back!

She reached out her hand to his, squeezing it, and for the first time in days, Boromir's heart soared. Perhaps there was still hope, but hope for a different purpose...

"We should think about what if, Boromir. I mean, what if we can't find you a way back."

Boromir smiled.

Their moment of warmth was rudely interrupted by the ringing phone. Morgan answered it, still smiling. "Hello?" she said, but didn't hear anything at the end of the line. "Hello?!" she said again, and then, heard the distinctive guttural breathing at the other end of the line that she was now disturbingly used to. "Eric? Is that you?" When no reply was given, but for some disgustingly creepy moans, Morgan shouted, "Stop calling me, you fucking pervert!!!" She clicked off the phone.

"Morgan, what goes on?!"

"Oh, nothing. Ex-boyfriend. Don't ask..." Suddenly, the phone began to ring again. "Hello?" Morgan said with a little more force and warning than usual. However, her demeanor suddenly changed. "Doctor Larkin!" she said, turning to look at Boromir. His spoon dropped with a clink in the bowl, and he sat, gaping at her with a look of utter panic.

"How are you?" Morgan asked, eyes firmly planted on Boromir. "Fine... Oh, he's fine. Things are going really well... Yes, I'm sorry about that. I've been so busy at work... Okay... Um humph. Can you hold on a sec?" Morgan covered the mouthpiece of the phone with her free hand, and turned solemnly to Boromir. "He wants to speak to you."

"I cannot..."

"I think you should."

"Morgan, I cannot go back there! It would kill me to be locked away so again!"

"I think he just wants to see if you're alright."

However, Boromir was not to be convinced. He shook his head, a resolute, no!

"Boromir, I think talking to him will prevent you from getting locked up, so get over here, and speak to him!" Morgan had said the magic words, for Boromir slowly rose and edged closer. "Now," Morgan instructed, "hold it right beside your ear, and talk into that part."

Boromir held the phone as instructed, his hand almost shaking with terror.

Morgan couldn't understand why he was just standing there, not saying anything, until it suddenly occurred to her. "Say hello!" she whispered sharply.

"Hello!" Boromir said loudly into the phone.

"Ah, there you are, Boromir," Dr. Larkin said. "And how are you feeling today?"

"I am well," Boromir replied, half his mind urging him to flee, and the other half wondering how the magical phone worked.

"Good! Good," Dr. Larkin replied. "Glad to hear it. And how are things going with Ms. Harris? Are your living arrangements alright?"

"Aye. She is very kind."

"Oh, very good! I must tell you, we still haven't been able to find any more about where you came from. Have you had any flashbacks at all? Any memories?"

"No, I fear I have not," was Boromir's reply. He could only hope it was the correct one.

"Ah...oh well. Sometimes it takes a while. They may come back suddenly, or bits and pieces here and there. Give it time, alright? Don't lose hope!"

"Alright," Boromir said, starting to feel more relieved. It was just like their old sessions, but now he was free of madness, and bars, and the prospect of straight jackets.

"Say, listen, Boromir," the good doctor began. "I'd really like to set up some more sessions with you, either weekly or biweekly. What would you say about coming in to see me this week?"

Boromir's breath caught in his throat. They are going to do it, he thought wildly! They are going to shut me away again! He dropped the phone, and backed away, his eyes wild with fright.

"Boromir! What's wrong?" Morgan asked, picking up the phone.

Yet, he could not speak, he merely shook his head, and escaped down the hall.

"Doctor?" Morgan said, putting the phone to her ear. "I'm _**so**_ sorry! What happened?"

"I'm afraid I asked Boromir to come in for another session. Does he appear frightened at all?"

Morgan craned her neck down the hall, but Boromir was nowhere in sight. "You could say that. Look, I'll be straight with you. I think he's really scared of getting locked back up again, and I can't say that I blame him."

"I hope you know that it was only for his best interest, and that we have no intention of doing so again..."

"Yeah, I know. It had to be done. I know we had to be sure." Morgan sighed. "It's just that he's made so much progress. Honestly, I'll work on the idea of him going just for a visit, and I'll even wait for him in the reception room if he wants. Maybe, would you mind, calling back next week, and we'll see?"

"That would be fine."

"Great."

"And Ms. Harris, I feel I must ask you, has Boromir been a trouble at all? That was one of my fears..."

"No, not at all," Morgan said honestly. "He's like family."

After hanging up the phone, Morgan stepped down the hall, and peeked into Boromir's bedroom. He was sitting on the bed, his back to the door, and looking out the window.

She sat beside him and wrapped a warm arm around his back, caressing it back and forth.

"I would not have you think me a coward," he began. "It does not make sense, and I know it. I have seen the slow coming of armies, the wind catching their banners in the evening breeze, heard their call to war, and have felt no fear. Many times have I come near death, and given it to many a foe, and felt no trepidation. And still... Have you ever been incarcerated, Morgan?"

"No."

Boromir shook his head, and fought back unnerving tears. "I cannot express... I cannot relate to you the feeling...the agonizing, unbearable experience of imprisonment when one had done no wrong. The inability to escape, and the despairing thought of never being released!"

"I'm so sorry, Boromir," Morgan's voice whispered, her heart plagued with guilt for the pain she had caused. In recollecting those days, now months ago, she didn't think she had any choice. But those words were of little comfort to her, when Boromir continued to suffer for it.

"Why, for you do not require forgiveness? What is your crime, pray? All you have done, is do me the greatest service I could ever have wished for." He knew he should not, that it was not proper, but he was beyond caring. He drew her close to him, tightly wrapping his arms about her. He had longed to feel her near, smell her sweet skin, and become totally entranced by the closeness of her body.

* * *

_**A/N: Please review!!!**_


	12. Gondorian Idle

**Chapter Eleven**

"**Gondorian Idle"**

It was without question that if Boromir could not indeed return home, he must seek out some sort of work. Morgan had never pressured him, but Boromir felt it insulting to be always idle while Morgan, a woman, earned their means of survival. For a while they sat discussing what possible careers a medieval soldier like him could possibly have.

"Are you crafty?" Morgan asked, but was quick to rephrase her question. "I mean, can you carve wood? Can you whittle?"

"Nay, I am no artist. You saw my drawing of Middle Earth. Twas an embarrassment..."

"It wasn't _**that**_ bad," Morgan said, though knowing full well that she had no comparison. "Well, what about a trade? Do you know how to...shoe horses?"

"Nay, for we have blacksmiths..."

"Can you make stuff with metal, like swords?"

Boromir shook his head, no. "Tis the smithy's duty."

"Well, what _**do**_ you know how to do?"

Boromir felt frustrated beyond all measure! "I am a soldier, Morgan!" he said rising off the sofa and striding about the room restlessly. "Strategy and battle is all I know. Your warfare is completely unknown to me, and I of little use to it! What can I offer when all that I know is obsolete? Regardless..." he turned to the window, and mockingly opened the curtains looking outside. "There is no war to be had here, so what am I to do?"

"What about what Wyatt said, about how well you taught sword fighting?" Morgan said, perfectly calm despite his disheartened manner.

"What use is such knowledge here?"

"Things don't necessarily have to be of use to learn them. Everybody has hobbies. I wonder..." Morgan strode down the hall to the computer and turned it on.

Boromir followed, in spite of his dejected pride. "For what are you searching, Morgan?"

"Something I heard Lakeesha say the other day, talking about taking a Continuing-Ed course on her Tuesdays off. It's a course for adults who aren't trying to get a diploma or anything, they're just taking a class of something that they're interested in. I'm just wondering..." she said, typing in her query.

"And what is Lakeesha wishing to learn?"

"How to knit. Apparently, it's therapeutic... Yup! Here it is! Asking people who are interested in teaching courses of general interest to apply here. What do you think?"

"You think I should instruct sword fighting? In a school?" Even to Boromir it sounded incredulous.

"It might be a stretch; they may not go for it, but we can give it a try. Hey, you already have three references! Me, Wyatt, and Lakeesha!"

"I do not know..." Boromir said shaking his head uncertainly.

"Look, what do we have to lose? I say we apply, all the forms are here, and if they reject the idea, we haven't lost anything, right?"

"Aye, alright," Boromir said, and sat down beside her.

"Just so I know, how many people do you think you could teach at once? Remember, whoever will be taking this course, will be no soldier. Just some Jedi wannabes..."

Boromir thought hard. He had never trained alone before. "I should say fifty."

Morgan nearly choked on her sip of tea. "Well, as we only have 15 swords, how about we say a dozen?"

"Aye."

Yet, the labour of filling out all the forms had been in vain, for as Morgan called Wyatt asking him for a reference, he said something which she had not yet considered.

"Does he even have a Green Card?" Wyatt asked over the phone.

All of Morgan's hopes came crashing back to earth. "No... Shit! I didn't even think of that! Wyatt, he doesn't even have a passport! They'll never let him teach!"

Wyatt sighed. He couldn't help but like Boromir, and could only imagine what a man of his ability must be forced to endure. "What about your neighbour up the road with all the horses? What's his name? Curt Watson?"

"Carl Webber."

"Yeah. I know he's a strange old fart, but why don't you talk to him and see if he needs a farmhand? I know it's not glamourous or anything, and below what I'm sure Boromir's capable of, but I should think he'd be used to horses, and maybe he'd enjoy it."

Morgan knew it was a stretch, not to mention a step down for Boromir. "It's not a bad idea," she said, though not entirely sure how Boromir would feel about the suggestion.

On her way home from work, she stopped off at Carl's farm. There were three large barns, each with chipping paint where the words "WEBBER & SON FARM" could still be seen. The house had faded yellow bricks, a long covered porch at its front, two stories, and was well over 150 years old. When Morgan had moved there 8 years ago, she had met Carl, and their camaraderie had been immediate. He was in his seventies, looked like he only shaved once a week, and crustier than an old, rusty nail. However, he had an endearing surliness about him that made Morgan think of a grandfather that she had never had.

"Hey there, Missy!" Carl said as Morgan got out of her car. "Whatcha doing here? I don't need no bed nurse, thank you very much!"

Morgan smiled. This was always how it was. He called her Missy, and teased her about being a nurse. Deep down, his heart was as good as gold.

"How are you doing, Carl?"

"Hangin' in there, but it's been hard, lately. I had to fire that stupid Flagherty boy. God damn teenagers! Think they can come and go as they please and expect to get paid for a full day, and only do half a day's work!"

He kicked the fence post at the end of his little speech, and Morgan wondered if she was barking up the wrong tree, or just barking mad in general. "You're in need of help, then?"

"Always needin' it, what with these stupid kids fooling around..." He continued to mutter under his breath, and kicked the fence post again.

"Listen," Morgan said, though not entirely sure she should. "I think I might have just the man for you."

"Man, huh? This the fellow who's been living with you? Yeah, I've seen him out there, chopping wood as I was hauling the hay back the other day."

"That's him."

"Uh huh. They say he's a foreigner..."

"Who's they?"

"Now, Missy!" Carl said, laughing. "You don't come movin' into a small village, and not expect folks to talk!"

Morgan nodded. "He's from England." A little white lie never hurt anybody, she told herself.

"England, huh? Well... He's good at chopping wood, I saw. Didn't mind the labour... Is he good with horses? The last thing I need is some sissy-ass Nancy-boy who's too skittish to get right under a horse if need be."

"He was raised with horses."

"Was, was he? Huh. Well, sure, we can give it a go. But now listen, Missy-girl," he said, half-scolding her with his pointed finger. "If it don't work out, I don't want any hurt feelings from you, ya hear? Even if he is your boyfriend. Though how you young people can live with yourselves, not being married, and living under the same roof is beyond me..."

"Alright, you've got a deal," Morgan said, ignoring his remarks. "He'll start tomorrow, and if things don't work out, no hard feelings."

Carl nodded his head. "Tell him to be here at 7 am sharp! I'll pay him $250 weekly, and in cash. Too cheap for eight hours a day, five days work?"

"No, I think that'll be alright."

Carl nodded again, and waved goodbye.

Boromir sighed. "A farmhand. I am reduced to this."

Morgan's insides felt crushed. She had done her best, and yet, she knew he was right. "I'm sorry, Boromir. It's all I could think of. Never mind! I'll call Carl, and tell him to forget it..."

"Nay," Boromir said rising, trying to best her to the phone. "It is not what I had envisioned my life to be, but it will do."

It was Morgan's turn to sigh. She felt like such a failure. Her feelings must have been evident, because Boromir was quick to grasp her shoulders and say, "I would not say it, if it were not so. Think not of my boorish manner!" he added with a smile.

Morgan managed a weak grin, but was not comforted. It had merely been the only solution that she could think of. If he couldn't get a Green Card, this was all he could do: manual labour that was paid under the table.

Boromir could not speak to Morgan of what a degradation this truly felt. He was meant to captain, not to clean out horse stalls! He was a leader of men, now forced to lead horses. Boromir hung his head in shame. What would his father say?

"Okay, I just need to give you a little warning about Carl," Morgan said as they stepped into the car the following morning.

"Warning?"

"I told him you're from England."

"Where is England?"

"Across the ocean. You kind of sound like how they speak... If they ask which town, say...London. Can you remember that?"

"London," Boromir repeated. "Why must I lie?"

"Men in white uniforms, Boromir? Mental hospital and all that? Remember? No one needs to think you're crazy..."

"I see. I come from England. Yes, I think I have it."

"Right. And, just so you know, Carl is a little cranky. Rough around the edges, you know? He's had a tough life..."

"Why?"

"His son was killed in Vietnam." She thought a moment, then added, "There was a big war going on there back then..."

Immediately, Boromir could empathize, for he, himself, had seen so much death. Countless of his own men had perished before his eyes, and naught could he do to save them. "I see..."

"Yeah, and if that weren't crappy enough, his wife up and left him."

"What do you mean, left?"

"You know, divorced...separated...split up. Not married anymore..."

"But, why?"

Morgan could only shrug. "Who knows what goes on behind closed doors. Just don't mention them, alright?"

They pulled up the long driveway, and up alongside the house. A lone warm glow could be seen within, and then go out. Morgan looked at the clock. 6:58. They were right on time.

Carl stepped out of the house, and Morgan and Boromir both got out of the car. It was brisk despite it being May.

"Carl, this is Boromir. Boromir, Carl Webber."

"Hey, what kind of a name is Boromir, anyway?" Carl asked, his steel grey eyes bearing into Boromir's.

Hesitating slightly, Boromir glanced at Morgan, but knew this was a question that he must answer. "My mother named me..."

"Well, you are a foreigner..." Carl said, believing that to be excuse enough for a stupid name. "Alright, first thing you can do is set to the horse stalls, feed the horses, clean out the stalls, and then take them out for exercise."

"I work the midnight shift tonight, Boromir," Morgan said, suddenly feeling very guilty for such menial tasks that Boromir was about to perform. "Shall I pick you up at three o'clock?"

"Nay, Morgan, I thank you. Your house is but a short walk south. It is no trouble."

"Are you sure?" Morgan asked.

"You heard the boy!" Carl said, impressed. "You only live twenty minutes down the road by foot!"

"Alright, then," Morgan said, and giving Boromir's hand a quick brush with hers, she drove away.

"You can start in the middle barn over there," Carl instructed, and Boromir strode off in duty.

Carl had thirty-two horses on his farm, in a mixture of breeds and colours. Boromir set straight to work, and was quickly surprised at how much he was enjoying himself! Far from feeling degraded and ashamed, his hands knew well what was expected of them, and he completed his tasks with a spring in his step. The musty scent of the barn, of hay and horse, seemed to rekindle a lost sense inside of him. The horses seemed curious about their new keeper, and he enjoyed whispering to them, and rubbing their long faces in greeting.

Hauling water and feed, and raking out manure proved labour intensive, yet it provided something which he had not expected: the glad necessity of occupation. At last he had employment! Time no longer crawled in idle languor. He bustled about, and with every duty completed, felt ever more fulfilled that he was a man who could provide for the woman he loved.

Carl strode in as Boromir was shoveling the last of the poopy remains, and closely inspected Boromir's work. "Huh," Carl said, nodding. He was impressed, but not the sort to throw away a compliment. "Not bad," was the best he could afford. "Take 'em out into the field."

Boromir nodded, set the shovel aside, and let the horses loose to roam free in the pasture.

Carl held back one horse, a chestnut steed with a wild spirit. "Can you ride?"

"Aye."

"Well, let's see ya do it, then!"

Boromir would not have thought it possible, but most of the tools needed for riding a horse were the same both in this world, as was in Gondor! No strange mechanical devices used here, he observed! He fastened the last buckle round the horse's belly, and effortlessly rose up into the saddle. The horse had already began to trot away, but soon it knew its master.

Boromir was reborn, and now free! What untamed beast quaked within the steed, Boromir set loose, and together they ran steadfast and effortlessly over unending fields. After long riding Boromir felt the exuberance begin to wane. He turned his mount about, and made back to the stables.

Carl had been watching, and was no fool. When Boromir jumped off his horse, breathless, and exhilarated, Carl said, "Oh, you _**have**_ been on a horse before, I see."

"Aye, I said as much."

Carl nodded, but said nothing. He simply seemed to stare into Boromir's very soul, until he at last announced, "Alright, then. Let's eat."

Lunch was not elaborate, Boromir observed. It consisted of steaming chicken soup and hot buttered biscuits, yet for two hungry men, it was gladly met.

"So, where did you learn to ride like that?" Carl asked, still skeptical of his new hired hand.

"At my home...in London."

"London?" Carl said, somewhat intrigued. "Didn't know there were any horses in a big city like London."

Boromir felt like Carl was trying to trick him, and catch him in a falsehood. Normally, Boromir would never do so. Yet, the clear recollections of the mental ward sobered his tongue. This was not a matter of integrity... "Just north of the city, in point of fact," Boromir made up.

"Huh. And how did you meet my Missy-girl?"

"Through her brother," Boromir said, taking a large bit of a buttery biscuit. Not since childhood had he told such tall tales, but in such a hostile country, he felt no shame in doing so.

"The cop, right? Hmpf. So, it's obvious you can ride. Can you break in a horse?"

Boromir looked up, unsure of how to answer. "I know not what you mean..."

"You know, breaking it in, preparing it for riding..."

"Ah, but I was taught to train horses, to harness their will and spirit, and not to break it. A fast horse is always desired, and to procure one, the horse must be taught who is master."

Carl nodded his head, wondering what kind of fruitcake he had in his kitchen. "There's a young filly out there that needs...training. After lunch, let's see what you can make of her."

Boromir nodded, and finished off his soup. It was quite clear to him that Carl was a man not to be crossed.

Carl would not have thought Boromir a man as good as his word, but Carl had no shame admitting when he was wrong. He watched in utter amazement as Boromir held onto the long training reins, and the young grey horse skittered about in a circle. It was plain as day that Boromir was no idiot, and knew well his way around a horse. Carl smiled, thinking he had finally found himself a winner.

Three o'clock came, and Carl strode up to Boromir. "You worked out well today," he said in his gruff crabbily voice. "I guess you can come back tomorrow if you want to..."

"Aye, I shall come again tomorrow."

Nodding, Carl held out his hand and shook Boromir's extended grip. Boromir strode down the long drive, and turned south along the concession road. For the first time since he knew not when, he felt good about himself. That feeling grew even happier when he recalled that with every step, he was closer to Morgan, and home.

* * *

_**A/N: Please review!!!**_


	13. Such Sweet Sorrow

**Chapter Twelve**

"**Such Sweet Sorrow"**

Boromir may have felt elation over his new means of livelihood, but it was nothing compared to the relief that Morgan experienced. During Boromir's first day while working for Carl, Morgan had been confident it would end badly. However, Boromir strode in perfectly amiable, and glad to be fatigued after a hard day's work.

The working week ended, and both Boromir and Morgan felt the restful bliss of a Saturday.

"Ooh, you made tea!" Morgan said, sleepy eyed and hair slightly askew. She took a sip and smiled. There were fewer things better in life than a nice, hot cup of Ahmad Earl Grey tea...

"Listen," Morgan continued when finding a comfy seat beside Boromir on the couch. "I have a surprise for you today."

"A surprise?"

"And an apology."

"Apology? Whatever for?"

"I forgot your birthday."

"My birthday?" Boromir had lost all track of time and days and months, and had not even realized that the event had passed. Did it even require a celebration? He was but one year older...

"So, I've planned something special for us!" Morgan said, excited about her little secret.

"Oh? What is it?" Boromir said, feeding off her giddiness.

"That's the thing about surprises! You'll have to wait and see!"

Boromir could only smile, knowing that the only means of extraditing such a secret was by means of tickling. And though he greatly desired to do this, his sensibilities on Morgan's delicacy naturally gave way. He would be forced to wait.

After the kerfuffle with the Little Person at the mall, Morgan had been most hesitant to repeat such an experience again, but knew that Boromir was still in need of certain articles of clothing. He may not complain about his lack of underwear, but she could no longer stand the thought of his having only one pair. And as she had not so much as even seen the said garment, she just assumed that he was always wearing them, and not pulling a Britney and going commando.

That morning, it was finally off to Macy's. They didn't have a choice because Boromir just couldn't wear jeans on their evening out. Therefore, it was decided by Morgan that he needed a suit, not to mention the underwear and socks.

They strode to the men's department, Morgan already red-faced and embarrassed. Boromir was such a proud man. There was no telling how he was going to react when she asked him about his skivvies.

She grabbed three bags of black boxer briefs, size medium, and shoved them into his hand without looking at him. "And you'll need some socks too..." she said, hoping that he just wouldn't ask, and naturally know what they were for. Well, she was out of luck.

"What are these?" Boromir asked, looking at one of the bags with suspicion.

"They're for you."

"But what are they for?"

"They're for you to wear."

"Morgan," Boromir said, sighing. She was dancing around all his questions, and he knew it. "What are we doing here? Have I not procured enough apparel? How much does one need?"

"You need a suit, and...I'm sure you're also low on underwear and socks," Morgan said, hiding her face behind a massive pair of boxers that had a gigantic skull on them.

"Underwear? What, pray, is underwear?" Boromir asked, looking at the bag, his brow furrowed in confusion.

Oh God, thought Morgan, kill me now! "Look at the picture on the bag..." Morgan said, peeking out from behind the rack of boxers.

Boromir examined the sketch more closely, and suddenly turned bright pink.

"Don't be embarrassed," Morgan continued, though feeling thoroughly embarrassed, herself. "Everybody wears underwear, and if they don't, they should."

"But you do not wear these!"

"No," Morgan said, but wondered how he knew that bit of information. "I wear girl's underwear." There was_** no way**_ she was going to explain to him what a thong was, or how it worked, so their conversation ended there.

Boromir relented in silent mortification, thinking it wiser not to argue. Morgan was just as glad for his relent.

Underwear and socks in hand, they set off to find Boromir a suit. A male salesclerk, flamboyantly gay with blonde spiked tips in his hair, offered his services. Boromir knew not what to make of the man.

"We're looking for a suit," Morgan volunteered quickly, seeing keenly the expression of absolute bafflement when Boromir had gazed upon the sales assistant. She did not want a repeat of last time. _**Who knows**_ what name Boromir would call this guy...

"And what colour did you have in mind?"

Boromir knew not how to answer, and so both men turned to Morgan for advice. "I'm thinking grey, or maybe black."

"Double-breasted?" the salesclerk asked Morgan. He knew who was the shopper of the pair.

"No," was Morgan's reply.

"Three piece?"

"Possibly, though it might be a little fussy for him..."

The sales assistant perused Boromir up and down with a quizzical eye, and said in a high-pitched, laughing tone, "I see what you mean!"

Boromir failed to comprehend what they were speaking of, but knew it did not bode well.

He tried on many suits, and hated each one of them. "I look affright in this ridiculous livery."

"I think you look great!" Morgan said as Boromir stood awkwardly in front of a mirror, as the salesclerk adjusted the pants.

"It does not suit..." Boromir said soberly.

The clerk held back his head and laughed. "The suit does not suit! Ha, ha, ha!"

Finding no humour in what he had said, he eyed Morgan in a look of unspeakable discomfort.

"Alright, no suit. How about just a pair of dress slacks?" Morgan offered, turning to the sartorial wiz.

"What are slacks?" Boromir appealed, extremely skeptical of what new garb they would dress him in.

"Ooh, yes, slacks!" the clerk said, rising and running off to grab a pair.

Slacks proved acceptable to Boromir, and with them finally selected they made their way to the cash register. At first Morgan had been determined that she should pay, but Boromir outright declared it to be a detriment to his manhood that he must forever be in her keeping. Morgan's last wish was to cause Boromir any kind of injury or injustice, so she quickly gave in.

They went home only to rest for two hours, change their attire, and then go. Morgan was dressed simply. Even more so than she had planned, now that Boromir was not to wear a suit. She wore a little black dress with a sweeping neckline, and her favourite silver earrings.

Boromir, however, was clad in his new black trousers, and a black, long-sleeved twill button down shirt. Morgan walked out of her bedroom in her two inch black pumps, saw Boromir and could not contain her laughter. "Oh God!" she said, looking down at herself, and then back at him. "Aren't we a pair! We look like we're going to a funeral! Oh well. Too late to change now..."

"You look," Boromir said as he strode near, "beautiful."

Morgan could not help but blush and smile. Humbly, she waved her hand about, as if swatting away his compliments. "You're sweet, but..."

"But when you smile, your face looks sweeter, still." Morgan smiled so brightly, the light within her seemed to almost glow. Boromir had been quite proud of that compliment, as it had taken him several days to phrase it just right. He had wanted it to be perfect, and not to sound bungling or obtuse.

Morgan reached over and quickly kissed Boromir on the lips. "Thank you," she said before going over to put on her coat.

Boromir blushed and smiled to himself. He was undeniably going to have to compose more compliments after such a triumph...

They went to dinner at a cozy little Italian bistro. Inside, the walls were painted a golden brown and decorated with intricate iron work, while a single tiny chandelier hung above each table.

Boromir perceived that only his best table manners were to be used, and so, buttered his tiny bread roll with the greatest of care. Morgan noticed how hard he was trying to do right by her, and with every movement that he made, her heart could not help but grow more enamored of him.

"This is a most beautiful eating house," Boromir said before taking a sip of his Chianti.

"My father and I used to have dinner here before he died. I haven't been in ages."

"How did he die?"

"Cancer," but Morgan was quick to catch the unfamiliar word. "It's a disease that can't be cured. I can say his passing was quick. I wish I could say it had been painless... I miss him."

"I understand your grief, for my mother departed when I was but ten years of age."

"Really? I didn't know that."

"Aye. My father was never the same afterward."

"He never remarried?"

"Nay," Boromir said, shaking his head. "Their love was one that I could only envy," adding 'until now' in his thoughts.

When their lasagna and chicken parmigiana had been consumed, and their cappuccinos finished, they set off for Morgan's surprise. They pulled the car into a large public parking lot, as a steady stream of people walked by.

"Where are they all going?" Boromir asked as he shut the car door.

"The same place we are. C'mon!" Hand in hand, they joined the surge of people which led directly to a theatre.

"We are to see a playact?" Boromir asked with jollity.

"Yes! Do they have them in...London?" They had come up with the understanding that while in public places, they would always refer to Boromir's home as 'London'.

"Oh, aye," Boromir said, smiling at his memories. "It has been so long since I have seen one, however..."

"Well, I hope you like this one. It's a very famous play," she said, and handed the usher their tickets.

They made their way to their seats in the third row centre orchestra. Morgan wanted Boromir to really enjoy this. Movies had always proven very tricky for Boromir to appreciate. She had a strong notion of his really getting into _Romeo and Juliet_.

Boromir stared at the program he held in his hand. "What sort of story is it? What is it about?" he asked Morgan. The elderly lady beside him, however, gave him the strangest look.

Morgan had noticed it, and turned to whisper in his ear. "Good things come to those who wait. Just enjoy the show."

The orchestra music swelled, the chandeliers were raised, the lights dimmed, the curtain rose, and the actors performed. Every now and then, Morgan glanced over to see a look she had never before seen on anyone's face; Boromir had an expression of pure thrill for what he was seeing. Morgan guessed that it was just old enough, just the right language, and what with sword fighting and all, it was just perfect!

"They died! Why did you not tell me so?!" Boromir exclaimed woefully at the end, receiving another incredulous look from the lady beside him.

"Oh! Didn't you like it?" Morgan said as they began to slowly make their way along the crowded aisle.

"Aye, but did they have to die? Twas very sad..."

Morgan smiled, as she had not expected such a reaction from him. Try as she might, she could not tell him that Hamlet, too, would die at the end. Perhaps she would choose something more cheerful for him next time, like, _The Tempest_.

They made their way home and Boromir watched the moon as they travelled along their dark road. "It _**was**_ very beautiful..." Boromir said after a long silence. "Their love would not be denied them, despite their families. Tis enviable, really..."

"You envy how they died?"

"Nay, but how they lived. Regardless of what wrong or misfortune came upon them, they were ever more determined to be with one another. Their hearts never wavered. Did you not see?" He looked at her. The moonlight was cast against her face, making it appear pearly white. "Have you ever experienced such love?"

Morgan looked at him; his face was still and unsmiling. He held no mockery in his voice, and appeared sincere. She sat there breathless, continuously glancing both at the road and Boromir, unsure of how to reply.

Morgan pulled into the driveway and put the car in park. She turned to Boromir, who still sat waiting, his eyes searching hers for answers.

"Can I ask you a question, Boromir?"

"You may ask me anything you wish."

"Are you still going to try to go back to Gondor?"

"Why do you ask this?"

"Because the answer to your question lies in your own answer." She gazed at him feelingly. If he were to go, her heart would break, she had no doubt of it. If they were to admit to each other what was so blatantly obvious to her, that they loved one another, her question would have to be answered first.

Boromir understood, for his heart had continued to puzzle over the same unanswered questions. His elven boat still lingered by the river's edge, as it had done for all these passing months. Many times Boromir had pondered about its hidden elven magic. It had brought him here, could it also send him home? This was a question for which he longed to know the answer, but at what cost?

He reached out to her, grasping her tiny hand. "If I were to stay, there would be but one reason. It is my wish to stay." His hand ascended up her arm, and up to her soft cheek. "Is it your wish, also?"

Morgan nodded, her heart filling with such happiness. He leaned in, and gave her a lingering, soft kiss.

Morgan unlocked the front door, while Boromir's tender arm hovered about her waist. The door swung wide, and Morgan tossed her keys on the little table by the door. She flicked on the light switch, but no light came, and they continued to stand in darkness.

"That's funny... The power must be out." Morgan looked outside. The night was clear with a pale moon rising. 'Weird..." She could see a soft, distant glow way down the road at Carl's place. His outdoor lights were on, so she knew he had power...

Boromir looked at his feet, and saw a smear across the tiled floor. It was difficult to see in such darkness, yet he felt that something was not right. And then it dawned on him. Moglie had not come to greet their arrival as he always did. "Stay where you are," he whispered to Morgan, and motioned for her stillness with a finger over his lips. He silently followed the strange smears into the kitchen where he saw Moglie, still and lifeless in a large pool of blood. His heart suddenly in his throat, he turned to her. "Morgan, go! Run!"

"What?!"

"Now! RUN!"

**BANG!** A gunshot rang out, and all fell silent.

* * *

_**A/N: Please review!!!**_


	14. Boromir the Brave

**Chapter Thirteen**

"**Boromir the Brave"**

**BANG!** A gunshot pierced the stillness of the night, and the brilliant light momentarily dazed those in the persistent darkness.

Seeing but a glimpse of a shadowy figure before him, Boromir sprang forward, thrusting all his might and weight onto the intruder.

**BANG!** The gun shot off again, and Boromir seized onto the strangers arm, attempting to wrench the unknown weapon away from the intruder.

Morgan, meanwhile, had narrowly escaped death, and felt the hot air rush past her right ear as the bullet came dangerously close. Immediately she ducked, and was wise to do so, as the gun went off again, blasting another deadly bullet toward her.

She raised her head to see Boromir grappling with the hooded stranger on the floor. Taking this distraction as an advantage, she ran to the kitchen, reaching for the phone. She knew not why, but she lost her footing, her shoe sliding along the slippery floor. She got up, wiped off her wet and sticky hand onto her dress, and grabbed the phone, knowing well which number to dial.

"9-1-1," the operator said calmly over the phone. "Please state the nature of your emergency."

"Please!" Morgan whispered, huddling in the dark behind the kitchen cabinets, but could still hear Boromir and the stranger move and cry out as they each hurt the other. "You've got to help us! There's a stranger in my house, and he's got a gun! He's trying to kill us; you've got to send someone fast! I live at 1667 Scugog Sideroad. Please! He's going to kill us!"

Morgan heard a peculiar noise, and found the courage enough to raise her head above the counter. Her eyes now getting used to the inky blackness, she gasped as she saw Boromir sitting on the stranger, hands tightly clasped around the fiend's throat.

His hands were squeezing hard, yet Boromir's mind was reeling at the sight before him. The stranger had no face, and did not even appear to have a mouth, yet gasped and grunted as though he breathed.

In all the years that Boromir had fought and killed, in all the instances of hand to hand combat, the worst was when no blade or bow was used. The need to use one's very last weapon, his hands, and slowly squeeze the very life out of something was a horrible experience. One that Boromir had encountered before.

It was evident that this enemy was no soldier, and unskilled in the art of combat. And yet, Boromir quickly perceived that this villain carried with him a most menacing weapon. Despite not knowing how it worked, or what it could do, Boromir's certainty of it being able to commit grave harm was keenly felt.

The trespasser may not have had the same soldiering training Boromir had, but Boromir easily discerned that this was a foe with no honour. The man fought like a wild beast, and pulled Boromir's hair. Each time the intruder struck a painful blow, Boromir felt less contrition about harming one of his own kind.

Now he had the villain! Boromir's large hands wrapped themselves tightly around the miscreant's neck, and the brute's arms flailed about, tearing and grabbing at Boromir's head, but to no avail. Boromir's face contorted in violent rage, his whole body and mind fixed on his one duty.

"Boromir, don't!" he heard Morgan bellow, yet it seemed distant and hollow. As if awakening from a trance, he turned to see her, while the trespasser beneath him lay gasping for air.

"Boromir!" Morgan commanded again, though still hiding behind the counter. "Don't! You can't kill him!"

Boromir looked at her as though she had spoken another language. "He is a villain, Morgan! He tried to kill us! What care you if he dies?"

"Boromir, listen to me!" she said, her voice now shrill and quivering. "They'll lock you up! They'll throw you back in the hospital, and never let you out again! Are you listening to me?! Let him go!"

After a moment's hesitation, Boromir's hands let loose the dastard's throbbing neck, and the man doubled over, coughing and breathless.

Boromir climbed off the rogue and sat back, unsure what next to do, his body was shaking so. He watched as the man rolled onto his side, yet did not react swiftly enough, for the degenerate's foot made impact with its intended target. It had been a brutal blow, and Boromir felt his ribs crack as the foot met with his chest. He fell back, an immense pain taking hold of his senses.

The masked figure rose and turned toward Morgan. Raising his arm, he still carried the shiny silver gun which sparkled despite the bleak darkness. Knowing the man was armed and ready to shoot, Morgan plucked up her courage, and held up her hand above the kitchen counter. In it was the phone, and the 911 operator still calling out to get Morgan back on the line.

"It's too late," Morgan said terrified, yet fearless at the same time. "I've already called the police."

Boromir, momentarily stunned, felt the cold brush of steel against his knuckles. Peering over, he saw the dim glisten of metal tucked neath the long bench. Recollecting his foresight to have hidden a sword there, he wrapped his fingers around its leather grip, and rose up.

The intruder quickly perceived this counter-attack, and in turning, took aim at his new adversary.

"Think I fear you?" Boromir began, his voice low, but filled with venomous rage. He swung the sword with mighty expertise, and its blade clashed against the barrel of the gun, knocking it out of the intruder's hand. Not knowing what to do against such a maniac with a sword, he stepped backward, suddenly anxious for escape.

"Think I have not killed worse than you? You are naught but a low minion of tyranny." Boromir swung his sword, purposely missing his target, toying with his purpose. "You have no perception of what true pain is." Boromir took another step closer, swinging the sword again. "If you be a man, step forward and have at it! If not, run like the coward you are!"

Eager for this chance to escape, the intruder turned and bolted through the open doorway. Boromir dropped the sword to his side, and shut the door, turning the lock.

Morgan sighed, and began to breath again. Running over to him, she wrapped her arms about him, tightly holding onto him. "Boromir, I was so scared..."

"You need not have been. Never would I allow any to harm you." Boromir tenderly kissed her brow. "Did you discern his identity?"

"No, I didn't see his face..."

"No matter," Boromir said, holding her all the tighter, despite the stinging pinch in his chest. "I saw him. He was hideously disfigured. He did not appear to have eyes or even a nose!"

Morgan could not help but smile. "I'm pretty sure he was wearing a mask. Oh!" she said, realizing that the phone was still clutched in her hand. Holding the phone up to her ear she heard nothing but dial tone. "Oops. Must've accidentally hung up. Oh well. They're coming."

"Who is coming?" Boromir said, his eyes closed, now perfectly content, for there was no more perfect existence that in her arms.

"The police."

"Not an army?"

Morgan smiled. Even at the most brutal of times, he could still make her smile. "No, not an army, but the next best thing."

Five minutes passed in quiet darkness. They sat on the couch, holding one another in a comforting embrace. The house was still around them, until a distant siren could be heard. Morgan rose and unlocked the door, now feeling brave that the intruder had long fled. Three police cruisers could be seen speeding down the road, and turned into the driveway. Racing out of their cars with their guns drawn, the first officer said, "What is your name?"

"Morgan Harris. I'm the one who called. There was an intruder...with a gun. He just ran off not five minutes ago." Two officers entered the house, and the other four began to scout the property.

"Sir, are you alright?" the officer said upon seeing Boromir.

"I'll live," Boromir said, rubbing his chest.

"Are you hurt?" the officer asked.

"My chest, but it is no matter," Boromir replied.

Morgan turned to the officer, "May I ask what precinct you're with? My brother is Lieutenant Harris with the 11th Precinct."

"Oh yeah, Harris! I'll call it in, let him know the situation. Is this the intruder's gun?" he asked, seeing the glistening gun lying on the braided rug.

"Yes."

The officer withdrew a pen, and expertly picked up the gun, careful not to damage any possible evidence. "Just stay here, awhile. Alright? I don't think we'll be needing the ambulance, do you?"

Morgan shook her head, and the officer strode away, but then turned back. "May I ask what happened to your power, Ma'am?"

"I don't know... It was off when we got home. We had just walked through the door, and he started firing."

"Alright. Can you tell me where your fuse box is?"

"Last door on the left. There's a painting on the wall of a sailing ship. It's behind that."

The officer, brandishing a flashlight, strode down the hall, and within a few moments, the lights illuminated the house. Morgan glanced down, and was shocked to see so much blood on her leg and hands. "Oh my God! How did I get so much blood on me? Have I been shot?" she asked.

"Pete!" one officer called to the other. "Get over here, quick!" Morgan followed the officer, sensing the note of urgency in his voice. Boromir held her hand, but was in less of a rush. He knew the grim discovery already.

Morgan gasped in horror at the sight that befell her in the kitchen. White tile lay stained and smeared with Moglie's ruby red blood. The officer was quick to respond, but with so much blood loss and no heart beat heard, all revival efforts were given up. Tears streaming down her face, and turning to Boromir for consolation, she openly wept, crying out for the loss of her beloved friend.

Boromir had never felt so helpless. He clasped her close, sensing to the terrible pain in her heart as she cried out Moglie's name in utter grief and despair. His thoughts turned to his friends when Gandalf was lost at the bridge of Khazad-Dûm. Such sorrow his company had felt at so great a loss. That same ache returned at this parting of so happy and faithful a friend that was Moglie. "Fear not, Morgan," he whispered to her, tenderly stroking her hair. "His death was a valiant one, for he died protecting us, doubtless sensing the danger lurking in the shadow. He would not wish you to have sorrow or heartache. I daresay he yearns for you as much as you do for him. Never would he wish to be separated from you."

His words were meant to sooth, yet they made Morgan cry all the harder, realizing what had been stolen from her. Never again would he be there to greet her by the door. Never again would he beg for his morning breakfast, or rest his head affectionately on her knee. Moglie's days of scampering through the snow, or chasing wild ducks were over. She thought of his high-pitched cry when she had cried, and ached to hear it again just one more time. How she longed to see him jump up, and come running to her in delighted play. Or how his big brown eyes bore deeply into hers when she spoke to him. But it was not to be, nor would it ever be again, for Moglie was dead.

Boromir led Morgan to the long bench, where they lay together, wrapped in each other's arms, each openly displaying their grievous loss with tears. Morgan clung to him with desperate need, and he willingly gave all he had to her. How it grieved him to see her in such anguish, and feel such suffering. Could he but take away her pain and bear it all himself, he gladly would have done.

A long time they sat there, as the officers busied themselves about the house. More officers came, and at times, asked questions.

Enemies? That question made Morgan think a minute. "I have been getting harassed a bit by an ex-boyfriend..."

"What is his name?" the officer asked, his pen ready.

"Eric Townsend."

"And how has he been harassing you?" the officer continued.

"Late night phone calls. You know, heavy breathing with no conversation... I've also received some roses with their blooms chopped off. Stuff like that..." Morgan replied. Boromir was a little unnerved by this information. He had no idea that Morgan was being harassed, so!

The officer looked humourlessly into Morgan's face. "Do you think it was Eric that attacked you tonight?"

Morgan thought a moment and replied, "I really don't know. It's been almost a year since we split. The intruder never spoke. I never saw his face. He wore a hood, and I think pantyhose over his face. It's possible that it was him, but I couldn't say for sure."

Time passed slowly, for they each felt as though they lived in a dream. The same officer who was first on the scene strode in from the hallway, a ball of cat in his arms. "I found this one hiding under the bed. Thought you might like to see him."

Morgan jumped up, taking a frightened Penny in her arms. The cat meowed shrilly, but was soon comforted in her mummy's arms.

"Oh, Penny! My Penny!" Morgan said, hugging her sweet brown cat. She had been so consumed with the loss of Moglie, she had completely forgotten that Penny might have been harmed as well! "You were right to hide, you smart girl!" Morgan again curled up on the sofa with Boromir, Penny now keeping Morgan's lap warm.

It was now extremely late, and at nearly 2 am, a frightened Wyatt burst into the house. He was not in uniform, and looked wildly around for his sister. Seeing her on the couch wrapped neath a blanket, clasping onto Boromir, Wyatt ran toward her, and she stood up, grabbing hold of him. "Thank God! Oh, thank you God!" was all that Wyatt could first utter. He looked Morgan over and saw the blood. "Jesus! Are you hurt?!"

"No," Morgan said, rubbing her hand over the dried blood on her arm. "It's not mine. It's...it's..." but a great sob escaped her, and she could not speak. She fell forward into Wyatt's embrace, and tucked her tear-stained face into his shoulder.

"It is Moglie," Boromir finished for her, a note of mourning in his voice. "The dastard killed him."

Morgan let out another loud cry upon hearing those words. "Oh no..." Wyatt said, patting Morgan's back. "I'm so sorry, Morgan. Listen, I think you should try to get some sleep. I'll take care of things here, and if they need you for something, I'll wake you, alright? You look exhausted."

"Okay," Morgan said nodding. She had never felt so tired in all her life, except on the day she had watched her father die. However, her own life had not been threatened, then. Now, the adrenaline had long warn off, leaving her body feeling beaten and drained. How she longed for unconsciousness and a place where Moglie wasn't dead.

Sleep took her, and for a time she found rest. Curled up in her cozy bed, she at last opened her eyes, ears straining to hear sounds of movement in the house, but all was silent. It was still night, for no light broke through her window. How long had she slept? She was prodigiously tired still, but felt as though she had slept a lifetime away. Her thoughts again turned to Moglie.

A tear escaped her eye, and then another. A gasp turned into a sob, and before she could stop herself, she was again engulfed in a torrent of tears. She heard the door open; had she been crying so loudly?

"Morgan?" Boromir whispered, not wishing to intrude upon her privacy or solitude. A maiden's bedchamber was a strictly prohibited territory, and one _**never**_ to be ventured into. However, his intentions were honourable, and he felt concerned for her welfare. "Are you in need of anything?" he whispered softly, not wishing to wake Wyatt who slept soundly on the sofa bench.

"Can you hold me just for a moment?"

Despite knowing it to be beyond all measures of propriety, Boromir cast his trepidation aside, and lightly stepped into the darkened room. His heart was beating fast. Never before had he ever exchanged such intimacy with a woman, but his love for Morgan was virtuous, and so he felt no more concern.

He sat upon the bed, awkward and unnerved at first. After crawling up into his arms, Morgan quieted and her tears subsided. A moment passed where his injured chest ached greatly, but upon shifting his weight, the soreness receded and became less great.

"Shall I tell you a story?" Boromir suggested, thinking that a change of topic might aid in Morgan's chances of sleep.

"Yes. Tell me something. Something not...horrible."

Boromir thought a moment. Not gifted in the art of storytelling, he was now forced to choose out a tale that did not have a tragic end. Boromir found the prospect very difficult, for it seemed every legend he could then recollect was a tale of woe. "This is a story I had heard some years past, and it always made me wonder. You remember my speaking of the Elves? Of their beauty, wisdom and grace? They are immortal; blessed with long life, for they do not become sick or frail with old age."

"Wow. Really? Lucky them."

"Aye, tis true," he said, caressing her hair. "Well, one such an elf was named Mithrellas. She was journeying to the sea in hopes of reaching the undying lands of her people."

"Undying lands?"

"It is called Valinor, the Elves true homeland, for which, if memory serves correct, all Elves must eventually return. Please forgive me; my knowledge of lore is not complete..."

"No! It's good. What happened next?"

"Well, Mithrellas journeyed to the sea, but met with a storm that she did not intend. She was lost upon the beach, wherein she met a man by the name of Imrazôr. Now, Imrazôr was not elf-kind, but was born of Man. He was not blessed with the gifts of Mithrellas' people, but regardless, Mithrellas was struck by his great wisdom and kindness. Despite their differences, despite their hailing from dissimilar people, they fell in love and wed."

Morgan smiled. Even on the other side of this world and into his, love still found a way. "And they lived happily ever after?"

Boromir was not entirely sure the meaning of such a phrase, but added, "They lived happily, yes."

"Mmmm!" Morgan said, closing her eyes, and snuggling up to him. "Nice story."

Boromir smiled, and again stroked her brow. He could not, in good conscience, tell poor Morgan the remainder of the story. Despite Mithrellas having born two of Imrazôr's children, Mithrellas fled, abandoning him and their children for the Undying Lands, never to return. Imrazôr lived out the remainder of his years, incessantly looking to the sea, waiting for Mithrellas to return.

He held Morgan in his arms, his mind turning over the story in his mind. Here he was, lost upon such a sea, and whom does he meet but a lady fair in a strange land. He stays; his intentions are honourable and just. Would he have it in his heart to do as Mithrellas had done, and abandon her to the wolves of heartache, as well as the wolves at her door?

Elvish love is inconstant, he surmised in the end. Here was he, wrapped in true love's arms, and naught in the world could drag him from her now.

* * *

_**A/N: Please review!!!**_


	15. Farewell to Moglie

**Chapter Fourteen**

"**Farewell to Moglie"**

Boromir awoke the following morning, a stitch in his neck, but Morgan asleep in his arms. She slept soundly, and did not even stir upon his getting up. The daylight was dawning, and casting her sunshine glow into the room. Boromir closed the curtains silently shutting out such light, no matter how beautiful, so that Morgan could still have peace.

"Ah, Wyatt; you are awake," Boromir said upon stepping barefooted into the kitchen.

Wyatt nodded. He had seen where Boromir had just come from. It did not bother him; he liked Boromir, and thought that he was a great guy, but at the same time, if last night was any indication, the last thing Morgan needed was another nut in her life.

"Yeah, I'm up," Wyatt replied. "Listen, I thought I'd let you know, after you two went to bed last night, I got a phone call. The gun that the intruder used was stolen."

"Stolen, indeed?"

"It's basically untraceable."

Boromir waited a moment, but Wyatt said nothing. "What does that mean?"

"It means that we have no idea how the shooter got the gun. Most likely they bought it on the street. So, right now the gun's being checked for prints."

"Prints? What are prints?"

"You know, fingerprints? Everyone's is different. If something is touched, we can know who handled it by their fingerprints."

"Indeed?" Boromir said intrigued. He stared down at his large hands with a furrowed brow. "I recollect something..."

"You remember something? What?"

"His hands...at one point he touched my face, but his skin felt almost sticky. They were ghostly white," he said, thinking back to the blackness and chaos.

"Gloves," Wyatt said, his heart sinking. "Son of a bitch. If this is true, we're screwed..." He flipped open his cell, and pressed a button dialing a saved number. "Paul! Hi, it's Wyatt. Listen, I'm at my sister's place, and the other vic, Boromir, remembers the guy was wearing gloves - white latex gloves, you got that? Yeah, I know. Just, print it anyway, alright? Yeah...appreciate it." Wyatt flipped close the phone and sighed, rubbing his throbbing temple. This wasn't good.

Boromir had listened to the conversation, but understood little. One thing he easily grasped was that the intruder, whomever the villain was, had been clever. His eyes turned from his upturned palms to the newly cleaned floor. "I see the floor is now scoured."

Wyatt nodded his head, looking grievously at the tiles. "I couldn't leave it that way for Morgan to clean up."

Boromir nodded, and thought kindly of Wyatt. He was no soldier, and Boromir doubted that Wyatt's demeanor would frighten many foes, yet Boromir could see that he had a noble heart, and that he loved his sister. Stepping to the doorway, Boromir tugged on his long Gondorian boots, and said, "Well, I am off in duty, though grisly and disheartening labour it is."

"Why? What are you doing?"

"Moglie must have a grave. It is too warm for him to remain long without one. It does not do justice to him."

"Let me help," Wyatt said, stepping in.

Boromir was grateful, and so they stepped out into the fresh morning air, melancholy in their task to perform.

The officers had compassionately moved Moglie's body out to the side of the house, and covered him with a tarp. They stood a moment discussing the best site for a grave, and then decided on a pretty spot close to the forest. Just beyond it wild flowers grew, and the scent of honeysuckle was at the most fragrant there.

And so, they began to dig. This was not to be a careless shallow grave, for they both agreed that Moglie deserved better. It was labour intensive, and painful for Boromir's aching ribs, yet he cared not. If this was all he could offer Morgan during her time of loss, he would endure it gladly and without complaint.

They were sweating profusely and still only two feet deep. Wyatt stopped for a moment's breath, and marveled at how much stamina Boromir had. "You dig like you've done this before," Wyatt said, wiping his dripping brow with his arm.

"Tis a sad business, digging graves," Boromir said, shoveling the dirt up and out. "Aye, I have done so before."

"Really? What for? Your own dog?"

"Nay, but for my men. Soldiers killed in battle."

Wyatt stared at Boromir's troubled face, waiting for him to admit to making a joke, and laugh in turn. But Boromir did not laugh, and only continued to dig. "How many have you dug?" Wyatt said, no longer smiling.

"How many grains of sand are there at the seashore? Far too many to count, and far too many to bear. One is too many."

Boromir is a mystery, thought Wyatt, and began again to shovel deep into the earth. When at last the grave was four feet deep, they had the grisly business of moving Moglie's body. Boromir was not afraid to touch the dog's lifeless legs, but could see Wyatt's apprehension. "Have no fear," Boromir said gently to him. "Moglie was our friend, and we cannot fear our friends, even in death."

Wyatt nodded. Police officer he may be, but he did not enjoy seeing the deceased, and never had the charge to move them. He had not so much as even touched his own father's dead hand while he lay in the coffin. Now, pushing his qualms aside, his courage grew and together they gently lifted Moglie up, and set him down carefully in his last place of rest.

"Perhaps we should wait for Morgan before we cover him," Boromir said, when the deed had been done. "She will wish to say her farewell, I expect."

"Alright. Let's go inside. I need a drink."

It was not yet eleven in the morning, and after scrubbing his hands raw, Wyatt reached into the fridge in search of something to take the edge off. "Want a beer?"

"What is beer?" Boromir asked, his soapy hands wrist deep in cool water.

"Never heard of beer? Oh, you'll like it," Wyatt said, a large grin on his face, as he effortlessly unscrewed the cap and handed the ice-cold bottle to Boromir.

Boromir took a swig, and his face brightened instantly. "Ale!" Boromir declared. "Oh, that is a comfort I have not enjoyed in many days. A pity it is so cold, however."

Wyatt gazed at Boromir, and nearly choked on his mouthful of beer. "You like it...warm? Really?"

"Aye," Boromir said, perfectly at ease with his choice. "Although cold is very nice also..." he was quick to add, seeing that his preference was not the popular one.

"Good morning," Morgan said, sleepy-eyed and hair awry. She wore nothing but shorts and a t-shirt, and still bore the deathly marks of the previous night. Moglie's blood still lay dried and crusted on her skin. She was longing to be rid of it. "Beer already?" she said giving a weak smile.

"It's Boromir's first."

Boromir smiled, and held up the bottle. How frail she looks, he thought. Her eyes are so red, and she appears to carry the weight of the world upon her shoulders... "Morgan, leave the preparing of breakfast to us menfolk. Go and have a bath. Breakfast will be ready when you are finished."

"You don't mind?" she said, coming close to him, gazing up into his tender face.

"Not at all!"

"Okay," Morgan said, and lightly kissed Boromir on the lips. He blushed at such a forward show of affection in front of Wyatt. Morgan shuffled down the hall, and soon the door was shut, and the rushing sound of water could be heard.

"Wyatt, I fear I have a confession to make."

"Oh?" Wyatt asked, his first thought being that Boromir was married with five children.

"Aye. I know not how to use that device," he said, pointing to the stove.

"Oh!" Wyatt exclaimed, much relieved. "No problem; I'll show you how it works. It's easy..." And thus, Boromir learned how to make pancakes.

The three sat and ate their hot breakfast in woeful silence. Morgan ate, but Moglie's absence was greatly felt.

When at last their plates were empty, Boromir said to her gently, "I know you do not wish it, Morgan, but we must bid Moglie farewell. Much longer in the heat of the day..."

"I know," Morgan said, feeling as though she were stuck in some horrible nightmare. The thought of Moglie attracting flies and God knows what else, totally freaked her out. "Okay. Let's do this."

The three stepped outside, Morgan still barefoot. An old red pickup was speeding toward the house, a cloud of dust in its wake. It pulled up the drive, and out hopped Carl. "Is it true?" he asked, rushing (as best he could, in any case), up to Morgan and gave her a big bear hug. "The whole village is talking about it."

"It's true," Morgan confirmed. "We had a home invasion, we didn't see his face, and he got away."

"What the hell is this God damn world coming to?! You think you live in a nice, peaceful place. Everybody knows each other, and looks out for one another, and then this. That's just awful! Were either of you hurt at all?"

Morgan chocked back her tears, but couldn't get the words out. Wyatt told Carl about Moglie, and Carl gave Morgan a fatherly pat on the back. "Oh. Sorry to hear about that, Missy-girl. That's what they call a cryin' shame."

"We were just about to bury him," Boromir said.

"Well, come on then, Missy," Carl said. "Can't put this off until tomorrow. I know it's sad, but he was a good dog, and the time's come to say your goodbye."

How numb she felt walking to Moglie's grave. She peered down into the hole, and there he lay on his side, as though sleeping. No glisten of red could be seen against the blackness of his fur, and she was glad of it.

Picking some wild flowers by the forest's edge, she then cast them into the grave, showering him with tiny white petals.

What he must have suffered! The thought haunted her. He must've been so scared. He must've needed her, called out to her, but she wasn't there. Did he die thinking she had betrayed him by not coming to his rescue? By not perceiving in some ESP connection that he was injured and dying? She shook her head, and down came a shower of tears. She had failed him. It was her job to keep him safe. How could she have allowed this to happen?

Boromir could see her anguish, and so took it upon himself to bid Moglie on his journey for her. But, what to say? Where were the words to describe such sorrow? At last, Boromir began to sing:

_We sow and reap from the earth._

_Now we give back that which was taken._

_Forever in our hearts we regard your worth,_

_Since now you will not awaken._

_The sun, she wanes, the day turns dark._

_The air is cold, and chills to the bone._

_All is now quiet, no call of the lark,_

_For you lie dead, and I am alone._

_We shall not forget the deeds you have done._

_Your courage and friendship shall live on. _

_Now rest in peace, for the battle is won._

_This be not the end, but for now you are gone._

Morgan, Wyatt and Carl stood in stunned silence. They could not have been more shocked. They did not laugh, for it was apparent that it was a sad song and that Boromir had sung it feelingly, but one look on their faces, and Boromir knew that the service he had just performed was not usual in their culture. They think I'm mad, thought he. "It is customary to sing a song of farewell in my country if one cannot find fairer words of parting."

Morgan smiled, and gave Boromir a hug. "It was lovely."

"Well," Carl said raising his eyebrows, "before you sign me up for the choir, I'd better get back to my horses. See you tomorrow, Boromir."

"Aye, thank you, Carl," Boromir said.

"I think I need to lie down," Morgan said, taking another fleeting glance at the grave. She didn't want to see him buried.

"Yeah, Morgan, go," Wyatt said, picking up a shovel. "We'll be in soon."

Morgan lay on the bed and stared at the white ceiling. She could hear the sounds of digging through the open window, and Wyatt's muffled humming of Boromir's tune.

How quiet and still the house is now, she thought while pulling loose a thread on her patchwork duvet. Things will never be the same again.

As if instinctively knowing that her mummy needed her, Penny leapt effortlessly up onto the bed, and, purring, nudged Morgan's face with each passing stroke. Morgan disliked the fur, but was glad for the company. "Oh, yes. You know what happened to poor Moglie, don't you? You were there, too, poor baby...and you miss him, too."

Morgan did not even remember falling asleep. She awoke, and the daylight seemed to be dimming, but not yet dark. Penny had long fled the foot of her bed, and all that remained was a furry circle. Combing her crazy hair, and wiping her tired eyes, Morgan strode out to see what the boys had been up to.

A man in a uniform stood at the door, half concentrating on his work, as well as peeking at what was on television. Boromir and Wyatt sat watching _The Empire Strikes Back_. Wyatt looked thrilled, while Boromir sat astutely with his brow furrowed, constantly asking Wyatt for information, of which Wyatt was more than happy to respond. Morgan noticed they were not yet at the "Luke, I am your father," scene. That would definitely prove to be amusing...

"What's going on?" Morgan asked, pointing to their visitor.

"House alarm. It's just a precaution," Wyatt said, pressing pause on the remote. "It'd make me feel a lot safer, and I'm sure you a lot safer if Boromir is up at the farm, or somewhere."

Morgan wasn't fooled. If Wyatt was putting an alarm system on the house, their recent break-in wasn't only the reason. "What's happened?"

"What do you mean?" Wyatt asked.

"I know you, Wyatt. You're scared for me. Why?"

Wyatt sighed. "While you were asleep, I got a call. They checked out Eric's last address, and he's nowhere to be found. His friends say they don't know where he is. They may be lying; I think they're lying, but we don't know."

"So," Morgan said, her fear rising, "he's still out there! Eric's still out there!"

Boromir instantly rose, and took Morgan's hand. "He will not come back. He's a coward, Morgan. He ran off like a milksop; he will not return."

"You don't know that..." Morgan said.

"Aye, but I do know that. However, if I am wrong and he does, I would never allow him to harm you."

"And what if he kills you like he killed Moglie?" Morgan asked, her eyes serious.

"Impossible. You saw me naught six months ago, shot full of arrows! If a band of a hundred Orcs could not kill me, I have no fear of him!"

"A gun's different, Boromir..." Morgan said.

"I would die to protect you!"

"That's what I'm afraid of!"

"Fear not!" he said, pulling her close, wrapping his arms around her waist and shoulders. "Fear not..." He was not saying it just for her, but also for himself. The coward, nay, dastard that had dared threaten her remained free. At home, he would take a small band of soldiers and hunt the beast down, and take pleasure in its kill. Now, in such a strange land with strange rules, he felt utterly helpless.

* * *

_**A/N: Please review!!!**_


	16. Boromir Son of Carl?

**Chapter Fifteen**

"**Boromir Son of...Carl?"**

Wyatt left the following morning, and told Morgan that he would only be a phone call away if she needed him. He had also taken Boromir aside in private, and instructed him that if anyone were to attack again, to beat the shit out of them for him. Boromir had been a little shocked at the graphicness of such a phrase, but understood the meaning perfectly.

Morgan took another day off work, and Boromir was to work again at Carl's. However, this meant that Morgan would be alone.

Boromir handed Morgan the phone. "Call Carl for me."

"Why?"

"I will tell him that I cannot come today."

"Boromir, I'll be okay. I'm nervous...I admit it, but the alarm system works, as we discovered when Wyatt left. I'll just set it when you leave, and I'll carry the phone with me at all times."

Boromir nodded, but did not feel comforted. "Then, here," he said, reached under the sofa, pulling out one of the Orc swords. "Have this by your side."

"Boromir!" Morgan said laughing. "If anything, I'd kill myself with that big heavy thing! There's no way I'd ever be able to use it against anyone!"

Sighing, Boromir returned the sword, but then pulled his own broken sword hilt out from behind a sofa cushion. "Then, I would have you carry this. Being broken, it is much lighter."

"If I say no, what else will you pull out? A machete?"

"I know not what that is."

"A really big knife. What's with all the swords and stuff hidden everywhere?"

"Merely a precaution."

"Well, alright, I'll carry this one, but if I cut myself, that's it! I'm putting it away!"

"Very well."

Morgan reminded Boromir that he was running behind, and so he made to make a hasty departure, but she pulled him back to her, kissing him on his lips. "Thank you. I'll be alright knowing you're not far."

"Call...for any reason... How I wish I still had my horn!"

And then Boromir was on his way. He arrived late at Carl's and was sorry for it, yet Carl did not even mention his tardiness. His only concern was for his Missy, and how she was handling her recent experience.

"Now, am I right when I heard that you fought him off?" Carl said in a low whisper despite no one else being near.

"Aye. I had his throat in a tight stronghold, but Morgan beseeched me to take pity on the villain."

"You might've killed him," Carl said, his eyes glistening with respect.

"Men of his sort should not be allowed to roam free; he is better off dead. Living, he only poses harm to innocent, decent people around him. Had I had my way, I would have killed him, and been pleased to have done so."

"You talk like a soldier."

"Aye, for I am one. I fought in..." Boromir suddenly caught himself, "many battles in my country."

"_**In**_ England? Don't you mean _**for**_ England?"

"Aye, that was my meaning." Boromir looked at the ground. He hated to lie, but still haunted by soldiers in white, the lies came easily to his lips.

"Where were you stationed?"

"I fear I cannot tell you, Carl. I hope you do forgive me."

"Top secret, huh?"

Boromir smiled, and felt relieved. "Aye. To do so would carry heavy consequences, I fear."

Carl accepted Boromir's excuse without question or doubt. "So you've been in many battles? Killed a lot of men?"

"I am familiar with war," Boromir said nodding.

Carl also nodded his head, but his eyes suddenly became misty, and his nose red. "My boy was a soldier. Did you know that? Oh yeah. Won the Bronze Star, and the Purple Heart in combat. Saved three of his battalion from the Viet Cong. Got taken himself, though, trying to rescue another man. Have you ever heard of the Hanoi Hilton?"

Boromir shook his head, no. He could see the pain on Carl's face, despite losing his son so very many years ago.

"Oh, well, it was a camp, you see. A prison camp for US soldiers. My boy was sent there. They say he died there four days before a bunch of men were released in '73. Can you believe that?! Four stinkin' days?!" Carl took a deep breath, and turned his face away to wipe a renegade tear. "Why did you become a soldier, Boromir?"

"We were at war. My country needed me; the threat was there. But I do not miss it. I have had enough of bloodshed, and death, and incessantly living in the shadow of doom. I like it here," he said, smiling and looking at the wide expanse around him. "Here there is peace."

Carl studied Boromir's face. It was though Boromir had never heard of 9/11, of Osama, or bombs, or planes colliding with buildings. It was clear he'd be touched by war, even scarred by it. However, he if thought America seemed peaceful, what in the world had he come from?

Boromir headed for the barn, and had a great sense of joy upon returning to the horses. They appeared to recognize him, and he greeted them cheerfully, speaking affectionately to them as he busied about their stalls.

After brushing down ten horses, and setting them loose in the fields. One, he noticed, was lame, and so he expertly cleaned the wound, and wrapped it.

Saddling up another, he mounted the steed, and set the animal loose. Together they ran far and fast, the strong spring wind rushing through Boromir's hair.

Carl had been watching from afar, tears streaming down his face. When looking at Boromir, he could not help but think of his son, Billy. To have died so young, and what the hell for? A thankless death. A worthless death. And now here he was, 78 and alone. No wife, no son, only horses. He felt old and tired. His bones seemed to ache with old age, and he knew he couldn't keep the farm for himself much longer.

His eyes turned again to look at Boromir, free as a wildfire upon the feisty horse. Boromir was around Billy's age, or perhaps younger than if Billy were still alive. They were nothing alike, for Billy was reckless, and had girlfriends galore in his day. Yet, he could see that Boromir had a fire raging within him, a strength that would keep him alive.

He rang the large cast iron bell hanging on the porch, and saw Boromir turn his head upon hearing it. In he came, and expertly jumped the fence, riding up to the house.

"That's some good riding there, son," Carl said, his eyes now wiped dry.

Boromir smiled. "He is a fine horse," he said, rubbing the long, black neck. "Wild and fast."

"His name's Spartacus."

"What does the name mean?"

"He was a man who lived a long time ago, who was a great warrior."

"And that he is," Boromir said, tenderly rubbing the top of Spartacus's head.

"Then, he's yours. He can board here; I know Missy doesn't have a barn, but he's yours if you want him."

Boromir was deeply moved. "Thank you very much, my friend," he said, jumping off the horse, and embracing the old man. "You are too kind to me."

Carl mumbled and stepped away. He could feel another tear coming along. "Say, why don't you take him and go have lunch with Missy? I'm sure you'd like to check on her."

"You do not mind?"

"I wouldn't have suggested it if I did."

"Thank you!" Boromir said, smiling in the sun. He climbed back on the horse. "I shall return within the hour." Boromir spun the horse about, and they bounded forth down the drive, veering off onto the dusty road.

Boromir felt free and content. His ride was a short one, for Spartacus was swift and steady. Approaching the house, Boromir saw an unfamiliar 'Honda' sitting in the drive. He slowed the horse to a canter, his mind already on high alert.

Tying the reigns to the porch, Boromir pulled out a knife, and quietly stepped to the door. He listened attentively. Muffled voices could be heard within, but Morgan did not appear in any distress. Regardless, he did not re-shield his weapon.

He burst open the door, and a loud siren blared through the entire house. So loud did it proclaim, Boromir dropped his knife to cover his throbbing ears.

"Boromir!" Morgan exclaimed, her hand over her ear as well, as she punched in the code on the keypad, silencing the alarm. However, the ringing continued in their now slightly deaf ears.

"Oh my God! You scared the crap out of me!" Morgan said, hand over her heart. "That alarm is a menace!"

"Menace it may be, but at least we know it works," Boromir replied, picking up his fallen knife.

"What's that for?" Morgan said, eyeing the knife. "Another precaution?"

He slide the knife back in its sheath at his waist. "Tease all you like, but you did not complain so the other night when..."

Suddenly, a man in a very nice grey suit stepped into the hall. He was balding, wore glasses, and his sudden appearance caused a start in Boromir that shook his very foundation. "Hello, Boromir," said Dr. Larkin.

"Dr. Larkin..." was all that Boromir could utter. How he wished to flee, run! Climb aboard Spartacus and escape! However, his feet were sadly rooted to the spot. He turned to Morgan for aid.

"Dr. Larkin read about what happened in the paper. He just wanted to check on us," Morgan was quick to say. She had seen the look of absolute panic on Boromir's face. If he were to run now, Dr. Larkin would think him crazy for sure. "You see, Dr. Larkin? Did I not say Boromir is doing well?"

"You certainly did, Ms. Harris, and now I have the benefit of seeing it with my own eyes! How do you feel, Boromir?"

Well remembering Dr. Larkin's cryptic questions, and the need for the correct answers, Boromir was very careful in his reply. "Considering what event has just befallen us, I feel I'm rather well."

"Good," Dr. Larkin said, following Morgan and Boromir into the living room and sat down. "I can't imagine what a horrible experience it must have been for you, and what you both must have endured, and continue to endure."

"It's been hard," Morgan said, her thoughts drifting to Moglie, "but we have each other. I know that if Boromir hadn't been here, I'd be dead. No question."

Dr. Larkin smiled at Boromir. "I can see I made the right choice in contacting you, Ms. Harris. It is so nice when things work out. So often they don't. And how about you, Boromir? Any progress in your memory recollection?"

"Nay, I fear not," Boromir replied. That answer had proven sufficient before, so he thought it wise to use it again.

"Well, don't try to push it. These things take time. Years sometimes. Well, I'm glad you're both well, and safe, and looking out for one another." Dr. Larkin drank up the last of his tea and rose up. "It's really time I should get back to the hospital."

Upon hearing those words, a fear struck in Boromir that Dr. Larkin was going to attempt to take him back with him. However, these fears proved groundless.

"Now Boromir," the good doctor said with one foot out the door, "you take good care of this young lady, alright? Just think of where you'd be without her."

"I will, Doctor," Boromir said, wrapping an arm around Morgan's waist. "Thank you."

They all waved their farewells, and then the good doctor was gone.

"What's with the horse?" Morgan said, for the first time noticing him.

"Carl gifted him to me."

"No way!"

"Aye!" Boromir said, smiling. "Is he not a fine piece of horseflesh?"

Morgan looked at him incredulously. "Ok, creepy term. But, yes. He's pretty. I can't believe Carl gave him to you, though. Do you have any idea what he's worth?"

Boromir shook his head.

Morgan smiled. "Carl breeds racehorses. Two of his horses have won big, one being the Kentucky Derby. I'd say that horse is worth well over $50,000."

Boromir looked blankly at her. "Is that a lot?"

Morgan could not suppress a laugh. There was simply no one like Boromir! "Oh, to not have to worry about money! Yes, it's a lot."

"Well, that makes the gift all the finer. Morgan, I do not mean to trouble you, but it would not do for me to return late."

"Hungry are you?"

"Aye."

"Me too. Alright then, let me fix something. Are you still too scared to use the stove?"

"Aye, I fear I am."

Morgan lay in bed alone, not at all sleepy. The house was silent and dark. Her thoughts drifted to Boromir coming to her bedroom the other night, and she wished that he would appear again. He had been absent the previous night, and she had felt it profoundly.

Boldly, she got out of bed, put on a lacy pair of Victoria's, and tidied her hair in the shadowy mirror. Reaching into her drawer, she whispered, "Boromir is definitely sponge-worthy."

She peeked into the hall; his door was firmly shut. Was he asleep? Should she disturb him? Did he even want her there? Her mind was plagued with questions, and her heart was beating within her throat. He made the first move last time, she thought, thus deciding that her advances would be welcome.

She opened his door; it did not creak. She stepped to the side of his bed. Before she could even lay a finger upon the duvet, he said, "Morgan? Is something amiss?"

"No. I was just kinda lonely, and wondered if you were lonely, too. Wondered if you wanted some company tonight." Her heart was beating fast. The first time with someone was always so awkward...

He turned to face her. Despite the room being a murky grey, her pale skin seemed to glow. His eyes met hers. "Morgan," he said, turning bashfully away, "you should not be here."

That was not the reply that Morgan was expecting. Her stomach dropped, and now felt sick. She was glad for the darkness, for then he could not see the tomato colour of her face. "Alrighty then," she replied curtly, turning her heel to leave.

He quickly sensed her brusque tone, and caught her hand. "It is not my wish to insult your feeling."

"Hey! No problem!" she said a little too eagerly, attempting to hide her mortification. "And just so you know, I didn't mean it that way. I was just..."

"Because I do," he said shyly, yet still clasping onto her hand in his firm grip.

"Do what?"

It took him a minute to reply. The search for words, the search for propriety were a raging battle in his mind. "Desire you," was the best he could muster, barely daring to glance at her face.

"Really?"

"Aye," he said, his eyes growing braver.

"Then..."

"Morgan, you are a maiden. It is not proper for us to be..."

Morgan's heart stopped as she waited for the last word to come. Lovers? Bed buddies? Friends with potential?

"...bedfellows," he concluded.

"Oh," Morgan replied, still holding onto his hand. Now is _**not**_ the time, she thought, for me to tell him I'm _**so**_ not a virgin...

"Know that I do not refuse you because of lack of...affection. I think you very comely, and kind, and virtuous. It is because of your purity that I cannot... be with you in that way."

Morgan smiled. Never had she had a man refuse her because he worried about her innocence or virginity. It felt so refreshing, that she couldn't hold it against him. "Okay," she said, smiling and brushed his long hair out of his face with her cool hand. "I'd better go, then."

"Wait," he said, still not letting go of her hand. "We could just...embrace for a while..."

Morgan could not suppress a grin. "Alright. But no funny business. No matter how much you desire me."

"Alright," Boromir said, allowing a laugh to escape him.

They curled up together on the bed, each relishing in the gentleness of being so close to each other.

"Boromir, how come you're not married? You're handsome... I'm sure all the single Gondorian girls were making doe-eyes at you."

"Nay," Boromir replied, shaking his head humbly.

"And I'll bet even some of the married ones..."

"Morgan!"

"No?" she asked, teasingly. "C'mon! You can't tell me there's never been a girl."

Boromir's manner suddenly became pensive. "I was in love once...long ago."

"Oh yeah? Who was she?"

"Her name was Halleth. But, surely this is not what you wish to hear!"

"No! Tell me. How old were you?"

"I was but four and twenty. Young. Too young..."

"Did she love you?"

"Aye. At least, I believed she did. We wished to marry."

Morgan waited, but Boromir said nothing; he seemed lost in memory. "And?"

"And...my father would not allow the match."

"Why?"

"Halleth was not...noble. Her people were good, honest people, but merchants. Not nobility. Not good enough for the Steward's eldest son."

Morgan looked up at him. There was a sourness in his voice; a bitterness.

"However," he continued, "I daresay he was right."

"Right? Why?"

Boromir shrugged his shoulders. "She did not truly love me."

"How do you know?"

"She did not wait."

"Wait? Wait for what?"

"For my father to change his mind. Or, for me to become Steward. We had agreed, but...she did not wait. When word of her betrothal reached my father's ears, he took delight in pointing out again what an ill match it was."

Morgan had a playful glint in her eye. "And did you also...desire her?"

"Morgan!" Boromir said, much shocked.

"I'm just asking."

"One does not talk about such things."

"Were you two...bedfellows?"

Boromir was now truly embarrassed. "I will not answer such a question!"

"Okay," Morgan said, thinking she had perhaps gone a bit too far. "So, how long were you two together before she got engaged to the other guy?"

"Eight years."

"Eight years!" she exclaimed, laughing. "You can't hold that against the poor girl! Eight years is a crazy length of time to wait to get married with no hope in sight!"

"That is not true..."

"Oh, yes it is!"

"But I would have waited, Morgan," he said, gazing into her face with all seriousness. "I would have waited as long as need be, for I loved her. My heart did not forget her as quickly as she forgot mine. To do so, was the greatest betrayal I have ever felt. I gave her my heart; I swore to love her to the end of my days, and she could not wait for me. She did not love me enough."

Morgan stared at him, her heart deeply moved. However, she was quick to remind herself that the stupid girl's loss was her gain. "And what now? You're free of her. Free of your father's opinion. Free to love whomever you wish."

"And so I do," he said, stroking her hair down to her neck.

If ever Morgan had wanted to be with him in that way, it was then, but she did not push. Boromir was a man of flawless decorum and courtesy. He was the epitome of the perfect gentleman, and never would he go beyond what was right by her, and she knew it. Never would he take advantage for his own gain or pleasure. He loved her with his whole heart, and she enjoyed the rare happiness that was felt in lovers who are comfortable simply being together with their clothes on.

* * *

_**A/N: Please review!!!**_


	17. Revelation

**Chapter Sixteen**

"**Revelation"**

It was early, barely even 6:30, when Morgan and Boromir met shyly at the breakfast table. They had spent the night together again, and slept - nothing more. Morgan didn't feel any self-consciousness about her inability to seduce Boromir into sex. She merely hoped that good things would come to those who waited, or at least used their feminine wiles to get what they wanted.

For now, she would have to be patient, and she was content with what she had.

"If you do not mind, Morgan, I wish to journey with you into the city."

"But, won't Carl be expecting you?" she said after swallowing her mouthful of cereal.

"Nay, I told him yesterday of my plan."

"Plan? What is your plan?"

"I go today to see Dr. Larkin."

Morgan nearly choked on her Fruit Loops. "But you just saw him yesterday!"

"Aye, but I feel if I come willingly upon at least one visit, I shall be free of this ordeal once and for all."

"Wow. You really are brave. Not that you have anything to be worried about..." she quickly added, not wanting to give Boromir a complex.

He smiled and buttered a thick slice of caraway bread. "I have no fear today."

"Well, good!" Morgan said, impressed. She didn't think that if she were in Boromir's shoes she would be so ready to return to the mental hospital, even if it was just for an hour. "I'm sure it'll be fine. And if not, call me at the hospital. I'll be there until two. Is that alright? What are you going to do in the meanwhile?"

"I shall bring _Hamlet_ along with me."

"Okay. Oh, and there's a bench just outside the ER; you can wait there until I'm done." Morgan rose up, putting her dishes away, but suddenly stopped. "Wait! You don't have a watch, do you? I keep forgetting these things..." she took her own watch off her wrist. It was dainty and gold, a graduation gift from her father. "Here. It won't fit you. Just...put it in your pocket."

Boromir stared at the watch with a puzzled look, which Morgan saw immediately. "When this arm reaches there, and that little arm reaches here, it'll be two o'clock."

"Aye," Boromir replied, still staring intently at the face of the watch, trying to burn the intended positions to memory.

By seven they were on their way. Boromir was at last beginning to enjoy the rides in her Honda, but still maintained that horseback was the preferred method of travel.

Morgan, dressed in her turquoise scrubs, stepped out of the car, glad for a few minutes of peace before the start of her shift. "So, here's the number if anything happens," she said, handing him a scrap of paper. "Do you remember how to dial? Remember, pick it up, listen, then press the buttons..." she said, miming the actions.

"Aye," Boromir replied, pocketing the number.

"Alright. So, to get to the hospital from here, you have to go to the lights, up...I think three blocks, and it's right there, on your right. If you get lost, just ask someone on the street. Or call..."

Boromir nodded, and smiled at her. "Have no fear for me."

"Okay. Have a good morning, and say hi to Dr. Larkin for me." She kissed him, and made off to the sliding doors, pulling her ID over her neck. She did not look back, and upon her disappearing behind the large glass doors, Boromir turned away. Yet, he did not move toward her instructions, but in the opposite direction. During their journey into the city, Boromir had been attentively seeking out his intended destination, and upon discerning it but a short distance from the hospital, he carried on his way.

It was still closed upon his arrival, and while he waited, he window shopped at nearby establishments, gazing in steadfast wonder at all the devices, and interesting inventions that this society had dreamt up. He saw two men approach the store, unlock the door, and flip the sign, which bade him enter. He did so, and approached the long, glass counter.

"Hello!" one of the men bade him upon hearing the bell. "Is there something I can help you with?"

"Aye," Boromir said, and pulled out his gold belt, the very belt that Galadriel, herself, had gifted him, and placed it on the glistening counter. "I wish to trade this for jewels and coin."

The little man blinked at him from behind his glasses, and rubbed his mustache. When you deal with the public, you get all kinds, he thought to himself. However, taking a closer look at the belt, he looked up at Boromir with astonishment.

"Wherever did you get this?! Avi! Get over here! You simply have to see this!"

The other gentlemen, stouter than the other man, but equal in height, hurried up and cast his gaze down at the unusual object.

The stouter man picked up the belt, feeling its weight in his hands. Smiling at Boromir, he asked, "I've been in this business for 27 years, and I've never come across _**anything**_ remotely close to this!"

"Wherever did you get it?" the mustached clerk repeated.

"It was a gift," Boromir said, somewhat bewildered by the fuss they were making.

The portly clerk already had his eye magnifier out, and tucked up into his right eye, closely examining the gold-smithing. "There are no markings, but this is 24 karat gold if I've ever seen any. There's no mistaking the colour... Is it Indian?" he said, looking up, his right eye magnified several times larger than the other.

"I...do not believe so," Boromir replied. "Is it of any value?"

The two gentlemen began to giggle as though they were little boys being naughty in church. "My good sir," the mustached man said, "we run the best gold-smithing business in Maine, I am proud to say. We do not pressure our patrons, and offer only the finest quality of merchandise. Never would we dream of misleading you. If what you have here is what we think it is, I would say that you carry a small fortune in your hands."

"Truly?" Boromir asked, his spirits brightening.

They both eagerly nodded their heads, smiling equally as brightly. "Now, we would be prepared to take this off your hands, as it were," the man with the enlarged eye said, still clutching on tightly to the golden belt. "I will need to run a quick test on the quality of gold, but if everything appears to be in order, we will have the greatest pleasure doing what business we can with you."

"That seems perfectly well," Boromir said amiably.

The two gentlemen nodded excitedly to each other, and then the stout man withdrew to the back room to run the necessary tests. The mustached clerk subserviently turned his entire attentions onto Boromir. "Now, I believe you mentioned you wished to exchange the belt. Did you simply want money, or did you desire some jewelry as well?"

Boromir sighed, his demeanor becoming more serious. These men were unknown to him, and he was loath to tell them intimate information. However, they seemed harmless enough... "It is my desire to...pose the subject of matrimony to...a certain lady..."

"I see! I see!" the little man said quite enlivened. "Then, you will be needing an engagement ring! If you will but come over here... Now, I'll ask that you simply look at the styles of rings here below..."

Boromir gazed at the rows upon rows of diamond rings, each unique in their size and shape. "Do I simply choose one?"

"Yes! Whatever you think she would like best! After that, we'll choose the stones."

"It will not be one of these rings, then?" Boromir asked. He was feeling dreadfully confused...

The man smiled, knowingly. "These are all fair rings, but I believe you'll want something truly spectacular! Something so beautiful, she will not even contemplate saying no!"

Boromir thought a moment. That certainly did seem more appealing. "Very well. But, are they not all a little plain?"

"Plain?" the man said, slightly crestfallen.

"Have you not anything with a little more colour? Perhaps green, or blue, or red?"

The salesclerk looked slightly horrified, but did not wish to insult. "We definitely have that option open to us, but...I hope you do not mind my asking you this, but, what sort of woman is the lady? Is she...a modern sort of lady?"

Boromir thought of Morgan, of all her independence, and accomplishments. She was capable of things that he dared not even attempt like mastering the terrifying stove, and driving the death-chamber Honda. "Aye, I would call her self-reliant..."

"Ah!" the salesclerk replied, now satisfied. "Well, a modern lady wants nothing more than a modern ring! And I promise you, a diamond is a girl's best friend!"

Boromir stared at the man, thinking him beyond mad. "If she should hate the stone..."

"You can return it! No problem whatsoever! But I promise you, you will leave here knowing that once she gazes upon the ring we are going to create, she will burst into tears, and say yes!"

Boromir was not altogether sure he liked the thought of Morgan weeping, but relented, thinking this strange little man must know the ladies of this land better than he. "Very well. I daresay you know best."

"Fine!" the man replied, agreeing silently with the comment. "And which one strikes your fancy?"

Boromir looked at the sea of rings. He had never seen a ring on Morgan's finger, and did not feel a proper judge. What if what he chose she did not like? Would she refuse him? It was too much of a demand on his senses... "I cannot! I know not what she will favor!"

"Then, may I recommend one to you?"

"Pray do!" Boromir, desperate for aid and advice.

"Alright. How about this one?" he said, pulling out a Tiffany style ring with a single large diamond in the centre in an emerald cut. "This is very modern, yet simple and classic."

"Simple?" Boromir said incredulously, staring at the massive stone. "It is immense!"

"Girls like 'em big," the clerk said, matter-of-fact.

"Indeed?" Boromir said doubtfully. "I do not know..."

"Well..." the clerk said, pulling out another ring, this one with a round diamond solitaire. "How about this one? Truly classic. Timeless! Breathtaking! This ring in a two karat stone will take her breath away!"

Boromir was not sure, but it seemed as good as any. "Aye, very well," he said, though slightly sick with worry.

"Excellent choice! Now, we must choose a diamond!"

"What is wrong with this diamond?"

"Oh, you do not want this diamond, sir. Let us get you a quality diamond. Now, have you ever researched diamonds?"

Boromir shook his head, no. So much for simple, he thought to himself, woefully. This was no easy task...

The clerk went on at length describing the various details needed in judging a diamond's worth. He lost Boromir a few times, but slowly brought him back. He brought out several diamonds to view, each one in their own right spectacular. In the end, they settled on a 1.5 karat stone, near white clarity, with very few flaws. Even Boromir was dazzled by its beauty.

"Now, the setting. Would you like yellow gold, white gold, or platinum?"

"May I not have it set in mithril?" Boromir asked, desiring the best for his love.

"I beg your pardon?" the clerk said, thinking he must've misheard the man.

"Nothing..." Boromir said, surmising that it was but another thing different in this land. "Which would you advise?"

"Oh, platinum of course! Now, it is more expensive..."

"That is no concern," Boromir said.

"Excellent!" the clerk said, smiling.

Just then, the stouter clerk came back, gold belt in hand, his face aglow, having just completed a police check for stolen gold objects. "Well, it's pure gold! I must say, this is one of the happiest days of my life! This belt is simply glorious, and I think we have several international buyers that may be interested! Getting down to the nitty gritty, the belt weighs 17.55 ounces. The current price of gold is $940.00 per ounce. That brings the total worth to $16,501.05. Is this satisfactory? Are you still interested in selling it?"

Boromir did not grasp all that was said, but it was evident the two gentlemen were eager to do business. He felt a pang to give up one of his few possessions from his former life, but thought that the Lady Galadriel, wise yet menacing, would more than likely favour its being relinquished for true love's sake. "Is that a fair price?" he said in innocence.

The two gentlemen glanced at each other, both believing Boromir to be playing hardball. "Alright then," the stouter man said. "Shall we make it an even $17,000?"

Boromir did not know what words he had said that made them increase their offer, but he did not complain. "That will do."

The two men exclaimed in rapture. "And he is in need of an engagement ring!" the mustached man said to his colleague. "Now, we have chosen a diamond, and a setting. Let me write up the order, so we can calculate the difference."

He excitedly set to work; soon the price had been set. The ring was priced at just over $5,000, which they decreased out of good nature. After taxes, Boromir was walking away with nearly $12,000 in his pocket. He had been most reluctant to take but one piece of paper in return of so high a number, as he had expected a great many coins to be given to him. They insisted that this was the preferred method, and so, he did not argue. However, upon their inquiry to his having a bank account, they signed it "cash" in the end.

The ring was to take several days, though Boromir had been insistent on its immediate preparation. In the end they relented, and asked him to return in an hour's time. They each happily shook Boromir's hand, wishing him mozeltof. He gladly accepted their wishes, and prayed in his heart that Morgan would regard his

offering with as much delight as he would have giving it.

Morgan's first day back had been quieter than expected, and she was glad for the slower pace of work. Midweek mornings always did seem inactive in comparison. Much of her day had gone by uneventfully, with only a woman in labour, and a car accident to liven things up. All the staff had made a great fuss about her return, everyone abuzz with her near-death experience. At one point, Davis pulled her aside, his voice smooth with a note of kindness that she had thought long ago extinct. "I'm sorry to hear about what happened. You're okay, though, right?"

"Yeah. Thanks," she replied, suspicious as to why he was being so nice to her. Misfortune brings out the best in people, she thought, but that thought was short lived.

"So who was it? Another one of your deranged ex-boyfriends?"

After her telling Davis where he could shove his stethoscope, she left, gritting her teeth. He always seemed to get the best of her...

"Hey Franny," she said to the ER receptionist during the afternoon lull. "Do you know when Lakeesha's shift is?"

"She's on the graveyard tonight," Franny replied. The phone rang and Franny picked it up. "Hello, Mercy Hospital. How may I help you today?" Franny suddenly looked surprised. "One moment," and turned to Morgan. "It's for you. It's Wyatt."

"Oh! Thanks!" Morgan held the phone to her ear. "Hello?"

"Morgan! Glad I got you. I wasn't sure if you were going to take another day off, and when I couldn't get you at home, I got a little worried."

"No, I'm alright. Things are...back to normal."

"Good...good." Wyatt paused over the phone, and then sighed.

"Wyatt? Is something wrong?"

"Morgan, I don't know how to tell you this, so I'll just blurt it out. We found Eric."

Laughing and feeling as though she had only just begun to breathe again after what felt like ages, she exclaimed, "Oh, thank God! I can't tell you how relieved that makes me! Where was he?"

"We found him in Sing-Sing, the penitentiary in New York state. That's why we couldn't locate him right away; he was out of state."

"What did he do to get himself sent to prison?" she asked, thanking her lucky stars that she had gotten rid of the loser long before his criminal career.

"Eight counts of fraud, Grand theft auto, five counts of destruction of private property, failing to remain at the scene...honestly, the list goes on and on!"

"Wow. Oh, I can't tell you how much better I feel knowing he's behind bars!"

"That's just it, Morgan. It couldn't possibly have been Eric who broke into your house. Eric was charged and convicted almost seven months ago, and has been in prison ever since. He's not our perp."

The sick feeling returned to Morgan's stomach with a vengeance. "Oh...shit..."

"The flowers, the late night calls...there's just no way it was Eric..."

Morgan nodded her head, not even thinking that Wyatt couldn't possibly see her doing it.

"The worst part is, we're no closer to finding who attacked you. All the evidence turned up loose ends. The gun was stolen - dead end there. He was masked - again, dead end. He failed to leave any DNA at the scene. He was wearing gloves, so we couldn't lift any prints. The only evidence we found at all was some powder residue left on the gun from the latex gloves. Some brand named: DiaMed. Now, those same exact gloves are sold in just about every pharmacy in the country." Wyatt breathed a heavy sigh. He was exhausted. He had been up for hours pouring over all the evidence, cross referencing everything, but got nothing out of it.

Morgan was scared shitless, but was determined not to make Wyatt worry more for her than he already did. She had Boromir, and that was a blessing unto itself. With him, she felt safer than the Hope Diamond. "So...what now?"

Wyatt stalled. The words were just too painful. "The case has turned cold, Morgan. We've been ordered to close it up. I'm so sorry..."

"No, you've done your best," she said, feeling nervous and frightened out of her mind. "Listen, Boromir's with me at the house. I don't have anything to worry about! Seriously, I'll be okay."

After several more assurances of letting him know the minute she was ever harassed again, they hung up. Franny had spent the entire conversation eavesdropping in concerned eagerness, and was quick to consol her young friend. "Morgan, I'm so sorry! Anything I can do for you?"

"No, thank you, Franny. I just...need a minute..." Morgan escaped to the stockroom, anxious for time to cry in private. He was still out there, whomever he was, she thought wildly! Merciless, and terrifying...

She wiped away a panicked tear, and glanced down. It took her a moment to register the blue box on the wired shelf. Clear as day was written the word: DiaMed. Shaking, she reached in and pulled out a single, white latex glove. She ran her fingers over the smooth plastic, and a thin film remained on her fingers. Gasping, she dropped the glove, and ran out of the stockroom.

They're sold everywhere, she told herself, trying to act as calm as possible. Yet, she glanced around the ER like a madwoman, feeling as though at any moment a hooded man could jump out at her, raise his gun and...

**BANG!** She nearly screamed as she bumped into the crash cart, causing the various instruments and packages to spill out onto the floor. Calling herself stupid, she bent down to pick them all up.

Davis poked his head out from behind curtain two, wondering what the commotion was all about. Seeing Morgan on her hands and knees picking up the mess, he smirked to himself, and stepped up, towering over her. "Feeling jumpy?"

"I'd like to see you go through the same experience," she replied, her voice icy cold, "and not be a little jumpy."

"Don't worry. I'm sure whoever did it won't try it again," he said, stepping away.

She didn't even raise her head, not even wanting to look at his foul rear end as he walked away. He stopped beside the garbage bin, and Morgan heard the distinct cracking sound of a normal act in the ER. However, upon this instance, it caused the hairs to rise up on her arms. She looked up, and there was Davis, pulling off white latex gloves, tossing them into the garbage. He walked away, not looking back. If he had, he would have wondered at the look of pure fright on Morgan's face.

She hid back in the storeroom, needing another minute to think. She was shaking, barely in control of her fear. What was she to do? There was no proof, just a hunch. She felt like such a coward. That is, until she thought of Moglie.

She thought of the first day she had brought him home from the pound, and how Penny had swatted him, letting him know who was there first. She thought of his favourite toy, a torn up fabric frisbee that now lay abandoned and alone by the fireplace. She thought of the empty cans of dog food in the cupboard, and of the day they buried him. She thought of his dried blood on her skin, and of the pain and loneliness he must have suffered upon being shot...twice. A rage boiled within her, which was stronger and more powerful than any fear. She strode into the ER, searching for her target.

Davis was in the staff room, hanging up his ID badge in his locker. Morgan stood at the doorway, her glare unfeeling. She observed his scrubs, wondering why she hadn't noticed the inconsistency before. "A little warm for a turtleneck, isn't it?"

Davis started at her words. He took a long drink from his water bottle, and scrunched the sleeves up to his elbows. "I'm feeling a cold coming on..."

"Really?" Morgan said, her voice smooth as silk. "You might be getting laryngitis. Better let me have a look."

Davis laughed mockingly, but there was a distinct note of anxiety in it. "Like _**you**_ can give a diagnosis...a nurse..."

"Let me see your neck, Davis."

He stood at the locker, his sarcastic demeanor fading fast. "I always knew you had the hots for me. One night not enough, right?"

"Still won't show me?" Morgan asked, unfazed by his non-answer. "Don't think for one second I don't know why."

"Oh yeah?" Davis said, a smug smile stretched across his perfect face. "Enlighten me."

"I know it was you."

"What was me?" he said superciliously.

"You killed my dog. What kind of a monster are you?"

"You think it was me?" he said, laughing. "You've seriously gone off the deep end, Harris! I think you've been living too long with that crackpot of a boyfriend..."

He went to walk past her, but she stepped in his way. "What did you say?"

Davis stood perfectly still, only a trace of a smirk on his face.

"Okay..." Morgan said, her eyes dangerous. "If it wasn't you who broke into my house, shot my dog, and threatened us with a gun...how did you know Boromir was at my house?"

"I've heard you talk about it..."

"No, no! I haven't."

All traces of levity vanished from Davis's face. His eyes suddenly became dark and menacing, as he drew close up to her face; so close, she could smell the stale coffee and cigarettes on his breath. "Prove it!" he spat.

He turned on his heel, and strode out. Morgan stood there a moment, weighing all that had happened in her mind. She still had no evidence, and she knew it. She hated to admit it, but he had killed Moglie, and gotten away with murder.

Davis was shaking slightly as he strode out of the ER. He stopped outside the doors for a much needed cigarette. Cupping his hands over the flame, he lit it, taking in a long drag, and hoped the dose of nicotine and arsenic would calm his nerves.

He'd been careful, he assured himself, taking another quick drag. He'd been extremely careful...

Suddenly, he noticed none other than Boromir sitting on the bench in front of the ER, reading a book. He looked back in the emergency room - Morgan was nowhere in sight. Feeling the need to drive home to Morgan what he was capable of, he strode up to Boromir, blocking out the sun, casting a shadow across Boromir's face.

Boromir looked up, and saw a man familiar to him. "I feel as though I know you," he said, squinting at the stranger.

Davis smiled cruelly. The freak didn't have a sword with him this time... "I was here the day you came to the hospital. Remember?"

"Ah, aye," Boromir said, smiling, but wondered at the strange behaviour of the man. He stood too closely, and he had a foul air about him.

"Listen, I think there's something you should know. The person who signed you off to be sent to the mental hospital was Morgan."

"What? Of what do you speak?" Boromir said quietly, his insides beginning to burn.

"You went there because of her. She's the one who had you committed."

Boromir jumped up, casting his book aside. As he rose, his eyes flashed ominously, and in one sweeping motion, he singlehandedly grabbed Davis by the throat. Davis chocked, and cried out in fright, yet Boromir snarled, "You lie!"

Davis tried to shake his head, no, but was caught too firmly in Boromir's grasp. "I swear! I'm telling you the truth! Go ahead! Ask her!"

Boromir let go the man's throat, feeling as though he were going to be sick. Davis coughed, and rubbed his already bruised neck. Turning triumphantly to Boromir, he couldn't resist adding the cherry on an already perfect ice cream sundae. "I fucked her too, by the way. Did she tell you? She likes her men really rough in bed, but I'm sure you already know that..."

Davis didn't even see Boromir's iron fist hit him, but he certainly felt it. His nose shattered, and blood sprayed everywhere. Gasping and gurgling with blood, he turned and staggered back into the ER, his tail firmly tucked between his legs.

Boromir, however, again sat back down on the bench, in shock. His hand was still clenched into a fist when Morgan approached, surprised at the sudden sight of Davis with a broken and bloody nose. She had never been so glad to see Davis in all her life. "Boromir! Did you do that?! I can't believe it! You wouldn't..."

But Boromir held up his hand, silencing her. "Morgan, I wish to go."

His careless dismissal felt near to a slap in the face. He wasn't himself. What the hell did she miss when she was in the bathroom? "Well, alright. My shift's over. Did you want to go out for lunch? I know this great Dim Sum place..."

"Nay," Boromir said, not looking at her; his eyes greatly affected. "I wish to return home."

* * *

_**A/N: Please review!!!**_


	18. Homeward Bound

**Chapter Seventeen**

"**Homeward Bound"**

The car ride home had been a quiet one. At first, Morgan barraged Boromir with questions about his visit to Dr. Larkin, believing his unusual behaviour related to being back at the mental hospital. Boromir's answers had been short and few.

What worried her the most, however, was how he never once looked at her the entire ride home. His face was always turned away, staring out the passenger side window.

They stepped in through the front door, Boromir stomping past her with giant mission-driven strides as Morgan punched in the alarm code. With the slam of the door, he shut himself up in his room. Morgan's mind ran wild, trying to remember if she had said or done something, anything that would cause him to be so upset. She could think of nothing, and so simply stood in the hall, not daring to even call out his name.

After several silent minutes, Boromir marched out fully clad in his Gondorian garb, his eyes bloodshot. He was just fastening his leather belt about his waist, when Morgan begged, "What's going on?"

"I am leaving," he said, still not daring to meet her desperate gaze.

"Leaving?!" she repeated. "Where to? To visit Carl?"

"Nay, I go home...to Minas Tirith."

"What?! Why?" Her voice was now cracking and panicked.

Boromir shook his head, his eyes cast downward to the floor. "This is folly, Morgan. This world of yours is mad, and turning me mad with it. I detest this place! I go!" He took a step forward, but she was quick to block his way, insisting he look her squarely in the face.

"What's happened?" she pleaded, her eyes swiftly filling with tears. "I'm not letting you leave here until you tell me what the hell is going on!"

"That man told me, Morgan..."

"Man? What man?"

"At the hospital. I broke his nose..."

"Davis?! He's the one! He's the one who shot Moglie! I just found out!"

"It was he who killed Moglie?"

"Yes!"

"And are you in the custom of bedding such men?"

Morgan felt as though Boromir had stabbed her in the heart. She could barely breathe. A lone tear streaked down her cheek, but she did not even notice it.

Boromir took a step back, taking the look on her face as a confirmation of his accusation. How it devastated him! "It is true, then? That you should give yourself so freely; I feel as though I do not know you!"

Morgan clasped a shaking hand over her mouth; she could feel the tears flow over the back of her hand.

Boromir's chin trembled, and he let out a small sniffle. "To lead me to believe you were a lady of honesty...a lady of virtue..."

Morgan's eyes shot open, but now they were filled with rage. "How _**dare**_ you! How dare you try to make me feel guilty about something that in this society, evil and demented it may be, is acceptable! I'm sorry that I'm not who or what you thought I was, but I've only ever been myself around you. What happened with Davis is in the past. Have I ever reproached you for Halleth?"

"I did not bed with Halleth!"

"Sleeping with him was a mistake; I'll be the first to admit it. But one thing you should know about Davis is, he's a jerk! He's cruel, and thoughtless, and totally self-absorbed!"

"And yet you did not tell me of your past relationship. I told you of mine..."

"Did you really want to know? What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas, ya know? It's the same about the past. I've never lied to you."

"There was certainly no lie last night upon your coming to my bed!" Boromir said, his voice rising, as well as his heartache. "I see now you are used to such debauchery!"

"Are you mad at me because I'm not a virgin?! Well, sorry! You missed out on that blessing a long time ago. But, I'll be _**damned**_ if I'm going to stand here and let you shame me for something that is _**normal**_, and I'll bet normal in Gondor, too!"

"We do not! My people have a high moral standard..."

"High moral standard?" The words pained Morgan. "So, I'm immoral, am I? What other words would your society have for a woman like me? Slut? Wench? Whore? Is this what you think of me?" She hid her face in her hands, and wept openly.

It made Boromir ache to see Morgan in such distress, whether injured by her or no. His manner melted slightly, and he put a hand on her shoulder. "I do not. I never said such. It is just...I am used to women...giving themselves but to one man...and that only in marriage..."

Morgan leaned toward him, and felt the returned comfort of again being in his arms. How it tortured her to have him think so poorly of her! She looked up into his face. He was openly weeping as well, and was not shamed by his tears. "I thought I was in love," she whispered. Was it a lie? Even Morgan wasn't sure. Upon Davis's arrival at the hospital, there had been a lot of flirting, and then the infamous date. Davis had been a brutal lover, rough and unmerciful. After such a wake-up call, she was compelled to give him the cold shoulder. But how was Boromir to understand? How was he to comprehend that here, sex was an acceptable part of life? That only in the rarest of cases did love not have a role to play.

Love... Boromir mused over what Morgan had said. Was love to be the exception to the rule of propriety? It was true that he had been considerably tempted in the previous night. Morgan had come alluringly to his bed, willing to give him his heart's desire. He had refused, but barely. His mind and heart struggled with what felt right, and what he knew to be socially correct. How he had hungered for her last night! So much so, his insides seemed to burn with need! Had he yielded and coupled with her, he knew it would not have been decorous, but would it have been wrong? Would she then have diminished in his eyes for not being his wife?

However, there was still one question left to be answered. He held her in his arms, his tears drying, and said, "I have one other question which I feel I must ask you."

Morgan's heart dropped. Davis's revenge had been severe. He had thrown all his cards in, entirely in an attempt to ruin the only chance of happiness she had ever had. "What?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper, though not at all wanting to hear the question.

"The day you first brought me to the hospital. Do you recall?" He grasped her shoulders, needing to see the truth in her eyes. "Did you perceive what would happen? Did you know they were to take me away to that place?"

Morgan couldn't lie. They had come too far, and her love was too great. She didn't know if it was pride, or that he had just accused her of having no moral value, but she didn't have it in her to deceive him anymore. "Yes."

He let out an anguished cry, let her go, and stepped back. He held onto the wall for support, and his knees seemed to quake. "Are you lost to all goodness?! All kindness or feeling?! How could you condemn me to such an existence, to be shut up with the mad!"

"I didn't know! I didn't know you! How could I know that you were telling me the truth? It all sounded so crazy at the time!"

"Crazy...mad... Aye, I suppose I am mad, to have lingered here so long..."

"Boromir, I love you!"

"As I love you," he said quietly. He wiped his face, and again grew calm. "Yet, what hope is there for us? There is too much betrayal, Morgan."

"Haven't you ever made a mistake? That's what it was, Boromir, a mistake! _**Oh, God!**_ I would take it back within a moment if I could, but I can't. I realized months ago what a mistake I had made, and I've been trying to right it ever since! Are you so perfect? Are you so righteous and pure that you've never done something that you wouldn't give anything, _**anything**_ to undo, but you just can't? There is no saying sorry, and making it okay. There's no way you can even forgive yourself, it's just so bad..."

Boromir sighed, and looked into Morgan's pained, tear-streaked face. "I am sorry, Morgan," and he strode to the door, and left without a backwards glance.

He had heard Morgan's heart wrenching, agonized cry as he strode down the front steps, but could not turn back. He knew well the way through the forest to the river's edge, and took scant time in reaching his destination. His elven boat lay still and overturned near the water's edge. He effortlessly upended it, for it was light and easy for one man. He carelessly tossed the oars into the boat, and pushed it up to the water's edge. His ankles in frigid water, he suddenly stopped, not letting go of the stern.

He doubled over, as if going to be sick, his hands gripping with tortuous agony onto the vessel. The whimper had been small at first, but soon it grew, him letting out all his sorrow and misery.

He pulled the boat back onto the shore, but did not ease his grip.

Morgan loved him, and he loved her, but was that enough? Was their love strong enough to steer a straight coarse through the tests of time? Halleth's love had proven untrustworthy. What would he do if Morgan's love proved likewise as variable?

Halleth had been sweet, gentle, and good, but his love for her had been naught compared to his fiery devotion for Morgan. She made him feel with his whole body and spirit, and delighted in all that he was as a man.

Yet, Halleth had been virtuous. Never did it enter her consciousness to attempt to couple with him, whereas, Morgan had been previously bedded, her purity gone. Were there more lovers? Even if he did marry her, would he be her last?

He was better off alone...at home. He pushed the boat back into the water, yet stopped again.

Regardless, he thought, she was human. She had never claimed perfection, and he saw now that he had placed her onto a high pedestal, perhaps unjustly in doing so. He had loved her regardless of her faults, as she had loved him. Her defects were her own, and they made her the woman he loved. Was it right to reproach her for having them? And, she had not wed that unworthy man... Nay, she had left him when he showed his true mettle. Morgan loved him.

He pulled the boat back again to the shore.

However, she had betrayed him. She had condemned him to the horrible hospital, convicted him of madness! He had endured such horrific humiliations whilst there, and borne untold agonies. Upon knowing that such sufferings were sustained because of her, a torrent trembled within him. But, even now, he was loath to reveal too much of himself to strangers lest they think him mad. Who here, with such close-minded opinions, would deem him otherwise? Yet, in the end, Morgan had believed him when others did not...

Who was he to judge her? Her words came back to him of mistakes and ill-judgements. Had he ever been guilty of a crime that was too terrible to be forgiven? Did not such an offense haunt him to that very shore?

He thought of Frodo, and remembered the day he tried to take the Ring by force. Had he turned mad? He did not rightly know. Even in recalling his actions it seemed madness, for he knew that he had committed a far worse act than Morgan. He had betrayed his friend, one whom he had sworn to protect and keep safe from all peril. Somehow, he knew not why, he had become Frodo's peril. Could Frodo ever forgive him? Could he ever forgive himself?

His heart throbbed, and he longed for relief from his tormented suffering. This was to end, once and for all.

He gripped firmly the boat, and ran knee deep into the cold river. He let the boat loose from his clasp, yet made no motion to climb aboard. It drifted farther and farther out of his reach, lightly floating away down river. "Farewell Father, and Faramir. You think me dead. Let it remain so." The elven craft drifted farther ahead; he blinked, and the boat was gone! Did it disappear, or simply turn round the bend, hidden by brush and foliage? He neither knew, nor cared; his choice had been made.

He could no longer carry the guilt and heartache he felt toward Frodo. Perhaps, thought he, by forgiving Morgan, he had earned forgiveness for himself.

Reaching into his doublet, he pulled out a small, velvety box, and opened it. A silvery ring glistened in the afternoon sun, its sparkling stone proclaiming to all that love would will out. Closing the box, he returned it safely next to his heart, and set off for Morgan and home.

**THE END

* * *

__****A/N: Please continue on to the Epilogue, and review!!!**


	19. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

Morgan had fallen to pieces when Boromir had walked out. His return was met with a cascade of tears, and her fist beating his chest for him leaving her. Boromir felt true contrition, as did Morgan, and they forgave each other and moved on.

Boromir did not propose to Morgan until the following morning. They had again shared a bed (to sleep), and upon her waking, saw a tiny box upon the pillow. More tears, and a resounding 'YES!' pronounced them betrothed. It is not known if Morgan and Boromir waited until their wedding night to consummate their love for one another. Morgan wouldn't tell me, and Boromir appeared mortified upon my asking.

Seven months passed in which Morgan and Boromir planned their November wedding. It was a small affair with friends and family present, and a local minister performing the ceremony. Lakeesha was Morgan's bridesmaid. Wyatt had been deeply touched by Boromir's asking him to stand up with him on that day, and perform the duties his brother would have performed. Morgan had asked Carl to walk her down the aisle, and he graciously accepted, but did so with tear-filled eyes.

Boromir thought of Faramir a great deal that happy day, and for many years afterward, wondering what fortunes and trials arose in his life. Long did he sit with Morgan on Sunday afternoons, contemplating dear Faramir's whereabouts, and whether he had married and become a father.

Moglie's death had been a sad loss, but in the summer nearing their first wedding anniversary, they were blessed with a scraggily stray whom they affectionately named Bill. Morgan had wondered at the name, but Boromir replied that he had once known a pony by that name, and it seemed to suit. Bill fattened up, and learned to trust and love, but was forever terrified of the dictatorial Penny.

It was in the following winter that tragedy struck. Boromir had been working on the farm when Carl had suffered a massive heart attack, and despite his frantic efforts, Carl had passed on. Boromir had been at his side when his dear friend died, and wept openly at so immense a loss. It was not until after the funeral that Morgan and Boromir discovered how greatly Carl had held them in his heart. He had left them the farm, horses, and all his land. Long did they discuss what to do with it all, but in the end, it was decided to sell Morgan's small house, and move into Carl's larger century home. The barns were repainted crimson red that spring, with bold white letters stating: WEBBER & SON FARM, for Boromir truly felt like Carl's son.

It was at this time that Morgan discovered that she was pregnant. Boromir felt joy and mirth beyond all expectations at the thought of becoming a father. Their daughter arrived in the early morning hours on the third of January. It had been Boromir's wish to name her after his beloved mother, and so their daughter was proudly named: Isabella Finduilas Húrin.

A month after Boromir had broken Davis's nose, a malpractice lawsuit arose, suing Dr. Davis for the wrongful death of a patient. The plaintiff won the case, and Davis had his license revoked. He fled to Mexico to practice medicine illegally, and it was there, after a long night of tequila binging, that he contracted a scorching case of herpes. He never returned to Maine.

Morgan and Boromir went on to have two more children, and call the farm their home. They continued to breed racehorses, and after several years, became known as the best breeders in the state. They are still known as such today.

* * *

_**A/N: You made it this far, and not reviewed once, am I right? So now here's your chance to let me know if my time was well spent, and if you enjoyed my little story. Please be kind and review!!!**_


End file.
